


The Time Traveller's Flatmate

by orithea



Series: The Time Traveller's Flatmate [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Developing Relationship, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:23:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 59,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orithea/pseuds/orithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes suffers from Chrono-Displacement: simply put, he time travels unpredictably, against his will.</p><p>John Watson lives his life the normal way. Or as normal as it can possibly be considering that he first meets Sherlock at the age of six.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Współlokator podróżnika w czasie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321591) by [tehanu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehanu/pseuds/tehanu)



> The concept of Chrono-Displacement belongs to Audrey Niffenegger, from her novel The Time Traveler's Wife.
> 
> Many, many thanks to [beauparadox](http://beauparadox.tumblr.com) and [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas) for helping me whip this into shape. Any mistakes are mine (and are probably due to being an American who throws her hands up at the thought of using British quotation conventions). Canon dialogue helped along by [these wonderful transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript).
> 
> Choosing not to use archive warnings to avoid spoiling major points of the whole piece. Each chapter will have a list of any relevant warnings before, instead. Rating applies to the work as a whole. This chapter: teen and up audiences.

Chrono-Displacement is the official name for it. It is a disease of sorts, a genetic mutation, that first begins appearing among individuals across the globe in the 1960s, though it takes almost forty years for it to become public knowledge. The CDP, as they come to be called, tend to be very good at hiding their problem. Very little is known about the cause because there are not many individuals with it who wish to subject themselves to studies, even for the possibility of finding a cure. Those who are willing to be studied suffer from the complication of the fact that nervousness and stress serve to trigger instances of displacement. That is, they disappear from the present timeline and reappear in the past, against their will. They have no control over when it will happen, where or when they will be deposited in the past, or when they will return to the present.

Sherlock Holmes calls it being presently challenged, or The Nuisance.

John Watson calls it the most amazing thing that could ever have happened to him.

\---

_29 January 2011_

John has been home for three months now, and they have been the three dullest, most miserable months of his life. It's not the actual being shot business that has him down so much as the fact that it—it and the limp that persists for no discernible reason, not to mention the tremor in his hands—has effectively ended his military career. The trauma of being a soldier, being shot at, had been easy enough to hide for years because it wasn't really trauma: it was a thrill, something that kept him going on ignoring the monotony of the rest of life. Actually being shot, well, that was impossible to hide. So now he has nothing to do besides go to therapy and promise to up his half-hearted attempts to keep a blog about his boring civilian life, try to ignore the fact that he’s been reduced to living in a bedsit and using a cane, and apparently relive his glory days with old friends. First the boys from Blackheath (they ignore his leg but he’s certainly not getting any invites to play rugby again anytime soon), Bill Murray,  then Mike Stamford who introduces him to—

It's a name that he hasn't said, a face that he hasn't seen in damn near fourteen years (if pressed, he could say the exact time, down to the day and the hour), but there's no denying that it's him. He knows this man—Sherlock. John stares at him, momentarily stunned. Not that Sherlock looks up to notice.

“Er, here. Use mine,” John says as he snaps out of it and offers Sherlock his phone. It finally gets Sherlock’s attention enough for an acknowledgement.

“Oh, thank you,” he says, striding over and waiting to be introduced.

“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike supplies.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks, after barely looking at him.

The question catches John off guard and he frowns. “Sorry?”

“Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?”

It’s been fourteen years: long enough that John has forgotten what it feels like to be looked at and _known_. He never had understood exactly how Sherlock did it, though. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?”

The girl—Molly?—comes in and interrupts the conversation, and Sherlock is… really rather rude. It throws John off because, yes, Sherlock was short with him sometimes, before, but he was never particularly cruel. He doesn’t notice at first that Sherlock’s asking him if he minds the violin—well, that would explain how Sherlock taught him to read music—and telling him that flatmates should know the worst about each other. Well, he’s left a great big thing off that list, John knows. Plays the violin when he’s thinking, sometimes doesn’t talk for days on end, and _oh yeah_ there’s the minor complication of involuntary time travel and the fact that he’s been visiting one John Watson for the better part of John’s life. Which hasn’t actually happened yet, for Sherlock. Of all the people for Mike Stamford to set John up with …

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street,” Sherlock says in parting, and then the final piece falls into place. Thirty years since John first met him, and now he finally knows Sherlock’s last name and where to find him.

“Yeah, he’s always like that,” Mike says with a grin. When John doesn’t respond, Mike begins to look concerned. “You all right, mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

“Yeah, it’s just—it’s fine, just kind of overwhelmed I guess.” John abruptly straightens up and shakes the dazed look from his face. “Ta, Mike, I owe you.” Truth is, he does feel rather like he’s seen a ghost.

John decides to find out as much as he can about Sherlock Holmes before he meets him again the next day.

\---

_30 January 2011_

John has almost convinced himself that it was a dream. He’s had enough of those lately: dreams about being shot at, dreams about lying there terrified of bleeding out from his shoulder, dreams about the rest of his unit carrying on without him. Why not dreams about his—very real—childhood imaginary friend?

But Sherlock’s there, stepping out of a cab as John hobbles up the street. Funny, he’d never had cash for a cab back then—they’d actually taken the Tube together on more than one occasion, though Sherlock claimed to hate it, just because John never had the money for a cab either. It’s going to be strange, getting to know him all over again when he’s not relying on John for everything.

“Mr. Holmes,” he says in greeting. It feels like having a special secret, finally knowing his full name.

“Sherlock, please,” he corrects as they shake hands.

John glances down the street with appreciation. “This is a prime spot; must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh no. I ensured it.” Sherlock smiles and John’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He’s apparently had a false impression about the nature of his friend’s work.

Before he can ask what exactly it is that Sherlock does they are being welcomed into the building and John introduced to Mrs. Hudson, who disappears into her own flat momentarily.

Sherlock is up the stairs in an instant, but waits at the landing for John to follow behind. “Listen, I forgot to mention the most important thing,” Sherlock confesses as John reaches the top. He opens the door and sweeps inside, and John follows behind. “I don’t like to tell people about it; Mike doesn’t know yet, so I didn’t want to mention it to you in front of him. But if we’re going to live together you ought to know—sometimes I disappear. And I don’t mean that I go running off and forget to leave a note. You’ve heard of Chrono-Displacement?”

John nods as he sweeps his head around, taking in the flat. “Yeah, actually, I had a… childhood friend with it,” he says, turning his attention back to Sherlock. He’s lucky that Sherlock has only just met him, doesn’t know his tells just yet, because it wasn’t his best-told cover up. He never could have gotten away with even a white lie like that as a child.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaims, instantly intrigued. “It’s quite rare; I’ve actually never met another person who has it even though there’s supposed to be a handful of us here in London.” His gaze on John turns sharper, more calculating. “Interesting for you to know two of us in a lifetime.”

“Trouble’s drawn to me, I suppose,” John says with a laugh. Truth is, he’s never met another one in his life. He thought Sherlock was the only one in the world until mentions of it started popping up in the paper years ago. It at least reassured him that he wasn’t crazy.

“Mrs. Hudson knows about it, of course. She says I started turning up here—a future version of myself, that is—sometime after I helped her with her husband’s case. She takes very good care of me when it happens.”

“You’d have to have someone like that looking out for you, right? Inconvenient to just show up naked and have to fend for yourself.” He gives the room another appraising look. “I think it’ll do nicely once we get all of these things cleared out.”

“Those are mine,” Sherlock says dejectedly. “I started moving in straight away, but I can straighten things up a bit...” He half-heartedly tosses a few folders into boxes.

John looks around again because he’s had a burning curiosity about how Sherlock lives for about thirty years now. Bookshelves already filled, knick knacks scattered about, kitchen table covered in laboratory equipment, boxes filled with papers, correspondence stabbed into the mantle with a knife, and—

”That’s a skull,” he says, pointing at it with his cane.

“Friend of mine. When I say ‘friend’…”

Mrs. Hudson comes to save the day, clearing a cup and saucer away as she moves from room to room. “What do you think then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two rooms.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two.” His brow wrinkles in confusion.

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones,” she says with a tone of confidentiality.

John turns to Sherlock, expecting some sort of back up for his denials but receiving none while he goes on straightening up his mess. Interesting, that. With a little shrug John settles himself into one of the armchairs. The walk from the Tube and the seventeen steps have made his leg ache. He tries to engage Sherlock in a conversation about what it is that he does, exactly—looking him up on the internet the previous night wasn’t entirely enlightening. But Sherlock is as evasive as always and the conversation gets steered away by the mention of the suicides and the sudden appearance of a man who is evidently a detective—Sherlock’s desire not to travel by police car finally gave that away. In a flurry of excited hopping about and inappropriate crowing about it being Christmas, Sherlock is gone.

“Look at him dashing about,” Mrs. Hudson says fondly. “ _My_ husband was much the same.” John frowns at her but she doesn’t notice. “You’re much more the sitting down type, I can tell. I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.”

John’s response is instinctive, and quite loud. “Damn my leg!” Mrs. Hudson immediately turns back to him with shock and he feels rather ashamed of overreacting. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing…”

“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip,” she says before bustling off for the tea.

The front page of the paper is devoted to the serial suicides that Sherlock just went rushing after, and a photo shows that the man who was just in the flat was indeed a detective—D.I. Lestrade. The reappearance of Sherlock’s voice in the flat startles him into looking up. He’s back, asking John if he’ll come along, serve as his assistant for… whatever it is exactly that they’re getting into. The flurry of activity begins again and reminds John that Sherlock could always be something of a force of nature when he got excited over something—a puzzle to solve—even though most of their time together was relaxed. It appears that mania is more of his typical state, or at least has been since they’ve met this time. It doesn’t mesh with his own personal data about what makes Sherlock disappear. They catch a cab and John finally has a chance to ask what exactly it is he does—consulting detective—and how he knew everything about John upon seeing him. Well, nearly everything. The explanation is nothing short of—

“That was… amazing.”

“Do you think so?” Sherlock asks with some surprise.

“Of _course_ it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary,” John says, practically beaming.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“‘Piss off’!” Sherlock replies with a little smile.

John grins. Good thing he’s never been exactly normal. “You did get one thing wrong, though. Harry’s short for Harriet.” _And you’ve even met her before_ , he’d like to say, but of course that hasn’t actually happened yet.

“Harry’s your sister!” Sherlock exclaims. He sounds almost angry with himself. “There’s always something.”

\---

Sherlock had told him once, when he was maybe seven or eight and very curious about his new friend, that he was a detective. John took his word for it and assumed that he worked for the police. Even asked him to solve a few personal mysteries over the years—who might have taken his pocket money from his school bag, whether or not his girlfriend was really going where she said she was, what exactly had happened to Harry that one time—with no indication that what Sherlock did was actually something special, something brilliant. Watching him in action, watching him explain his process, is fascinating, even when it’s directed on those police officers at the crime scene. He doesn’t particularly feel any sympathy for them, not after Sergeant Donovan called Sherlock a freak. What Sherlock sees in the body is even more impressive.

John can’t help the praise that slips out for the second time in just a few moments. “That’s fantastic!

Sherlock turns to John, voice quiet. “You know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“No it’s... fine.” The slightest smile, just a little turn up of the corner of his mouth, twitches across his face before he continues with his deductions. Anyone else wouldn’t have seen it, but John does.

When Sherlock suddenly rushes out of the room and down the stairs going on about the suitcase, John tries to follow behind. The leg gives him trouble, though, and by the time he gets all the way down, removes his coverall, and steps onto the street, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. John has a momentary panic, thinking that perhaps he’s hit a time incident, but a scan along the street reveals no piles of clothing left behind.

Sergeant Donovan is still down there, letting people in and out of the crime scene. She sees him looking and is quick to let him know Sherlock disappears like that—and really, who knows better than John—and wastes no time warning John to stay away from him. Before he has a chance to argue, she’s called back inside the crime scene by Lestrade, and John is left watching her go, seething with anger. God, it’s really no wonder Sherlock was willing to be friends with a child whose backyard he popped up in, if this is how everyone treats him here. The thought only serves to remind him of how used he is to the man disappearing on him. “Wonderful. Left behind again,” John mutters to himself as he hobbles up to the main street.

\---

John is worried when he’s first carried off in the black car, but there’s also something of a little thrill there. He’s riding the high of once again having a world filled with Sherlock—it’s a more complex one than he had ever realized. It’s dangerous, and John hasn’t been in danger for months. It was Sherlock himself who pointed out how John thrived on danger, many years ago.

It almost feels like being in a spy film when he’s deposited in a near-empty warehouse with an impeccably dressed man who orders him to sit down and tries his very best to be intimidating. John gets the sense that it works on most people—that he is not used to having his word disobeyed.

“Who _are_ you?” John has to ask when the man begins questioning him about Sherlock.

“An interested party,” the man replies with a false smile.

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?” He inclines his head towards John but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

It sets John’s teeth on edge to be told again that Sherlock is not capable of having friends. He knows better. “And what’s that?”

“An enemy.”

“An enemy?” John’s text alert goes off and he pulls his phone out of his pocket to read it.

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” the man sneers.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH_

“Not distracting me at all,” John answers, trying not to smile at the message. Imperious as ever. Then it dawns on him. “His enemy? No… you’re not his enemy.”

“I’m not?” He arches one eyebrow in a smooth challenge.

“No, you’re not. You’re certainly not the closest thing he’s got to a friend, either, because that would be me.” He meets the man’s confused gaze with steady eyes. “You’re Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. You’re his brother.”

For the first time in their meeting he looks less than perfectly composed. His jaw drops for a moment, before he nods in admission. “Yes, I am. How did you—”

“Do you remember getting a note in the post back in... 1982?” John asks casually, as though this is a perfectly ordinary question. “From Sherlock himself, by way of someone else? Quite unusual to receive a note like that from your baby brother, isn’t it?”

Mycroft narrows his eyes and frowns with immediate understanding. “Of course—that was you.” He straightens up and regards John again, more carefully. “I had forgotten that the correspondence went through someone named John Watson. Thought it was an assumed name, actually.” He has a distinct look of distaste over the fact that he’s forgotten anything in his life, much less the name of the person in care of quite a lot of money meant for his time travelling brother nearly thirty years ago.

“You did a really nice bit of work with that,” John concedes. “Looked just like a pen pal letter, with the stickers and the French stamps. Didn’t raise the slightest suspicion. You were only about… nine, ten, when that happened? Very enterprising, even then.”

Mycroft spreads his hands in false modesty. Holmes trait, then—why waste words when you can convey and read so much meaning in simple gestures and expressions and be completely bloody infuriating in the process? “Fine, Dr. Watson, I will admit that I might have been incorrect about the nature of your relationship. You plan to continue your association with Sherlock, I take it?”

“Nothing you could do to stop it.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in unspoken challenge before continuing. “And what would it take for me to have you tell me the details of your relationship with my brother?”

“More than you have to give me. It’s not really your business.” Even if Sherlock hadn’t always told him not to tell anyone about him, he wouldn’t share anything with Mycroft. It is their first meeting, but he’s already well aware of what the elder Holmes brother is capable of.

“Ah, but Sherlock is my business. I think you understand why I worry about him: his little... time problem.”

“Still not your business.”

“I’d be willing to pay you, very generously, in exchange for any information you can give me.” Mycroft gives John an appraising flick of the eyes once more. “It can’t be easy for you to find work, or you would have done so by now. You’ve been back home long enough, but there’s a problem that persists.”

John’s phone chimes again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

“No,” John says, looking up from his phone. “Don’t bother to mention a figure; I won’t do it for you.”

Mycroft presses his mouth into a thin line, the only tell of his annoyance. “Very loyal, Doctor Watson. Just how much do you know about my brother, I have to wonder.” He moves closer to John. “I know that he does not know about you at all yet—”

“And you won’t be the one to tell him,” John snarls to cut him off. He’s been standing on guard, but now his shoulders tense further and his knuckles have gone white from gripping his cane to suppress his anger.

“—which makes me think that perhaps you have a misunderstanding of exactly what he is like,” Mycroft continues as though uninterrupted. “He is a very fine actor, you’ll find, very good at playing a part in order to get what he wants. Sherlock Holmes can be a very dangerous man. I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen.” He nods his head towards it.

“My what?”

“According to your therapist you have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. She thinks that it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, but that’s not it, is it?”

John looks down, surprised to see that he’s right. He hasn’t been paying attention to it but… well, the tremor might have been gone for some time before he was dragged into a dangerous situation with Sherlock’s egomaniacal older brother. Still, he tenses further at the intrusion on his privacy. “You stole notes from my therapist?”

Mycroft continues, ignoring his question. “You’re not haunted by the war, are you? You miss it. You miss the thrill of having my brother in your life—which you must have done, for him to have trusted you when you were a child. You know that he’s dangerous and nothing that I tell you will stop you.” He’s leaning in close, far more intimate than John finds comfortable, and his words are almost a whisper.

John’s anger flares and he meets Mycroft’s eyes. “You don’t understand me or your brother half as well as you think you do. Just know that for many years he was the most important person in my life, and now it’s my turn to repay the favor. And don’t bother with the ‘hurt him and you answer to me’ speech. He’s already done—will do in the future—enough painful things to make us fairly even.”

“I’ll be sure to remind you of your impression of the score later,” Mycroft says with a terse smile. John breaks eye contact and looks down at his mobile when he hears the text alert again. When he does, Mycroft begins to walk away, casually twirling his umbrella.

_Could be dangerous. SH_

“Now, if you would—” John begins, but he looks up to see that Mycroft is gone. Anthea is there instead, looking bored.

“I’m to take you home,” she tells him, and he follows her back into the car. She lets him stop at his bedsit and pick up the Sig before taking him back to Baker Street. He’s not sure that he’ll need it, but somehow he feels it’s better safe than sorry where Sherlock is concerned.

\---

Turns out that the dangerous business was sending a text that Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to send himself. To a murderer. Whom they’re luring to a location of Sherlock’s choosing so that the murderer will identify himself. John begins to wonder if he possibly should have listened to Mycroft.

But if they’re going to eat dinner together and Sherlock won’t bother to mention that they’re not on a date, he does have a curiosity of his own to settle. “You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.” Well, that he was fairly certain he already knew.

“Oh, right. D’you have a boyfriend?” When he sees Sherlock’s face he adds, “Which is fine by the way.”

“I _know_ it’s fine.”

“So you’ve got a boyfriend then?”

“No.”

“Right. Okay. You’re unattached, like me.”

Sherlock looks rather startled. It’s a face John’s seen before in a similar context. “John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…”

“No—,” John interrupts him. “I’m not asking. No.” Well, not really. Just curious more than anything because he’d never been able to get a straight answer before. “I’m just saying it’s _all_ fine.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Further awkward conversation is saved by the appearance of someone who is most likely their murderer, and by the ensuing chase after the cab before heading back home, breathless and laughing in spite of it. When Angelo delivers his cane to the flat, John starts laughing anew, feeling more than a bit manic, because it’s the first day that Sherlock has met him and already he’s done so much, fixed things that time and professional help have been unable to mend. Here he was thinking that he had an unfair advantage on Sherlock, having known all about him for so long, but there’s so much more to Sherlock than he ever realized.

The presence of the police in the flat only adds to the things John wasn’t aware of about Sherlock: apparently a junkie, can’t understand sentiment, calls himself a sociopath, keeps body parts in the flat and doesn’t bother to mention that as one of his worst qualities. It’s all a bit different from the Sherlock he knows. Thought he knew, at any rate.

What he is far more sure of are the signs of a problem. When Sherlock slows his frantic pacing and becomes lost in thought, it makes John instantly alert, even though Sherlock waves him away with irritation when he tries to talk to him. “You’re sure you’re all right?” John asks. He lowers his voice to a confidential whisper. “You’re not going to…”

“No,” Sherlock answers, still distracted. “Nothing like that, just—”

“Just what?”

“Just popping outside for a moment. Fresh air. Won’t be long.”

John watches him go with concern. He wants to take his word for it, but years of experience have taught him that a distracted Sherlock rarely means good things.

\---

Logically, Sherlock can’t die yet, because that would mean that John’s entire past effectively never happened. It ought to be reassuring, but it’s not. It just reaffirms for John that it’s his duty to make sure that nothing does happen to Sherlock, just in case the past can be unwritten. He takes chances on lots of things, but not on this. When the GPS signal of the pink lady’s phone beeps, John _knows_ that Sherlock’s gone off and done something foolish, and he doesn’t hesitate at all in running after him.

He’s almost not fast enough. The building is unfamiliar and the GPS too approximate to help him navigate the halls of Roland-Kerr with any accuracy. It’s only sheer dumb luck that leads a frantic John to the building opposite the one that Sherlock is in, looking right at him, and he has to trust that it will be good enough. He does hesitate, has to be sure, but when Sherlock holds up the pill, studies it, looks ready to take a chance on it—that’s enough for John. He holds steady and fires, heart hammering an unsteady beat that fortunately doesn’t make it to his hands.

It’s good; the man drops to Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock’s head swivels around, looking for the shooter. John carefully stands back and ducks so he won’t be seen, and just as Sherlock bends over to examine the bullet hole in the window, John can see a spasm wrack his body. Sherlock doubles over with a grimace, and within seconds, he disappears.

John takes the time to clean his hands and hide his gun and hide Sherlock’s abandoned clothing in a broom cupboard before the police arrive . They’re all at a bit of a loss with a dead man lying in a classroom, an unknown shooter, and no Sherlock to piece together how this has anything to do with their serial suicides. John decides to fill the Detective Inspector in while they wait on Sherlock to return. It’s never very predictable just how long he’ll be gone.

“He sent me a text after he left the flat,” John tells Lestrade. They stand together outside of the building, and John can see from the way that the man’s fingers twitch that he’s dying for a cigarette right now, despite the nicotine patch he showed off earlier in the evening. “Said that the murderer was a cabbie—people trust them, never think twice about getting into their cars. Made it easy for him to take them out to abandoned places and force them to take the poison.” He hadn’t actually received any messages from Sherlock, but the badge lying on the driver’s lifeless chest helped him figure out the major points of the situation.

“And where _is_ Sherlock now? I’ve told him that he can’t just go running off from a crime scene without giving me some sort of report.” Lestrade sounds tired and his hair is in disarray from running frustrated fingers through it.

“He didn’t—it’s not like that,” John says hesitantly. He’s not sure how much he knows or how much he should tell him.

“Did he do his disappearing thing again?” Lestrade sighs. “I swear if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I’d think it was the absolute worst excuse for avoiding police procedure that I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, you know then?”

“Yeah. He came to bother us at a crime scene five years ago, leaning all over the tape and telling us everything we were doing wrong. I pulled him aside for a talking to and he got so bloody angry that he disappeared in the middle of telling me how stupid I was not to listen to him.”

“Sounds like him.”

Lestrade laughs. “You’ve been his friend for a long time, then?”

“Just met him yesterday, actually.”

\---

It’s been almost an hour since Sherlock disappeared. The police haven’t cleared out from the scene yet because there’s an alarming lack of evidence, so they’re stuck gathering whatever they can find to build a case until a certain consulting detective comes around to make his statement. John loiters by the side of the building, waiting just in case he comes back in the same place. He’s not entirely sure how that part works.

An arm goes around his chest and John is pulled backwards into the dark row between two buildings. “Hey!” he manages to get out in surprise before a hand clamps down over his mouth. John stiffens and tries to fight against the person holding him, but the grip is surprisingly strong.

“Quiet, don’t attract attention.” John slackens because he recognizes Sherlock’s voice at once. “I need some clothes; mine were taken, probably for evidence.” He removes his hand from John’s mouth, satisfied that he won’t make a scene. He also lets his arm fall from his chest, but keeps a grip on the sleeve of John’s coat.

“Do you know how dangerous it is, grabbing me like that?” John asks, shaking his sleeve out of Sherlock’s hand and stepping away to put some distance between them. “If you hadn’t talked immediately I would have put you on your back.” He scowls and pointedly avoids turning around to look at him. He hears Sherlock huff dismissively but decides not to challenge him on it. He’ll probably find out soon enough, acting the way he does. “Anyway, that was me that grabbed your clothes; they’ve got them in the back of a police car. Lestrade is holding them as leverage to make sure you talk to him when you turn up.”

“Wonderful, giving an account to the police is just what I want to do right now.” Sherlock grumbles with impatience. “Most of the time I pop right back into the same place or close to it. Always nice to have my clothing still there.”

“Well, how was I to know? I just saw a pile of things that looked like they collectively cost more than two month’s rent on our flat and thought it best not leave them lying around.”

“Our flat? You will be moving in, then?”

“Yes, just need to pick up some things at the other place tonight, then I’ll pop ‘round. Now can we not talk about this while you’re completely starkers?”

“Your own fault,” Sherlock reminds him. “Maybe I should speak to that crackpot therapist of yours, talk about the emotional trauma you’ve inflicted upon me by stealing my clothing and leaving me to deal with sneaking out of a crime scene undetected in order to avoid being arrested for indecency.”

“Keep it up and I’ll make you fetch them out of the car yourself,” John warns. It’s made less effective by the fact that he’s already striding off to retrieve them.

\---

_31 January 2011_

Sherlock is sitting on the desk in John’s bedsit while he packs up his things. John doesn’t have many possessions—so many years in the army led to a comfort with sparse living arrangements. There are, however, enough things that he’s unable to carry the boxes on his own, even now that he’s no longer limping.

“This is terribly tedious,” Sherlock says with a sigh. He opens a folder that sits on the desk next to him, clearly marked ‘Confidential,’ and flips through the papers.

John snatches the folder from his hand. “Not everything is your business. You could help, you know. It would go faster with two.”

“I could,” Sherlock concedes. “But I won’t.”

“Then stop complaining.”

“I’m not comp—” Sherlock’s sudden intake of breath cuts his sentence short and he doubles over. “John, it’s...”

“I know. Do you want me to wait here for you?”

Sherlock shakes his head, takes a few slow breaths to try and steady himself, and then he’s gone.

John sighs. He was really looking forward to taking advantage of Sherlock’s superior abilities in flagging down cabs. When the remainder of his things are packed neatly into three cardboard boxes he lays Sherlock’s clothes out on the bed so they won’t wrinkle and leaves the key to his place with a note for Sherlock to lock up and drop the key in his landlord’s box when he leaves, and to bring the remaining box of John’s things along. It takes some work to balance the two boxes and maneuver down the stairs by himself, but he manages.

It is nearing midnight and John is settled into his armchair—strange, he already does think of it as his after he’s only just moved in, since Sherlock seems to prefer to perch on the other one—with a cup of tea when Sherlock finally comes home.

“Did you wait up for me?” Sherlock asks as he steps inside and drops John’s box unceremoniously onto the floor, next to his own still unpacked ones.

“No, I just happen to still be awake and there’s not much of anything to do in my bedroom just yet.”

“Right,” Sherlock says. He hangs his coat and scarf on the back of the door and swoops in to grab John’s mug, but makes a face when the sip of tea isn’t sweet enough to suit him and places it back on the side table.

“Yes, help yourself.” John rolls his eyes as Sherlock settles into the chair across from him. “Would you care for your own tea?”

“Please. I take it—”

“With two sugars. I know.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Do you?”

“You aren’t the only one who can observe,” John says, padding into the kitchen to turn the kettle on and raising his voice to continue the conversation. “I saw how many of those sweet cream buns you ate last night.” The fact that he made him more cups of tea than he could count after he was tall enough to reach the kettle is left unsaid.

“I only had three!” Sherlock calls back, indignantly.

“You ate five; I counted. After Angelo’s I thought you didn’t eat at all, so I was understandably impressed.”

“Can’t eat on a case, it slows me down. But time travel always makes me hungry after the nausea wears off.”

“And you have a sweet tooth, so therefore I deduced two sugars.”

“You learn more quickly than I expected.”

“I’m not a complete idiot, then?” John comes back and hands Sherlock a cup of tea and a pack of only slightly squashed biscuits that he rescued from his desk at the bedsit.

“Less of one than most,” Sherlock admits with a nod of thanks.

John smiles and settles back into his own chair. “Where did you end up this time? Or is it when did you end up?”

“It’s both, really.” Sherlock frowns at his tea for being too hot to drink before continuing. “I ended up with my ten-year-old self, practicing lock picking. Handy skill to have—I don’t always end up in a place where I’ve stored clothes.”

“Handy method of avoiding helping your flatmate move.”

“Yes, well, I never claimed that The Nuisance was entirely disadvantageous.”

“I always thought that it was triggered by stress,” John says. He takes a sip of his own tea, now grown a little too cold.

“It can be, like last night when an unidentified gunman killed the man who was standing in front of me.” Sherlock gives John a pointed look. “But I mostly find those sorts of situations exciting rather than frightening. In my case it’s much more likely to be triggered by boredom.”

“Must be a real problem for someone with a mind like yours.”

“You have no idea.”

\---

_18 February 2011_

“Christ,” John says when Sherlock comes into the sitting room. He’d heard the crash from the bedroom that preceded it, but wasn’t expecting to find Sherlock striding out within seconds with just his dressing gown wrapped around himself, hand pressed to the side of his head and covered in blood.

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says, but he is wincing and looks surprised at the rate of bleeding. He pulls the right-hand cuff of his gown over his wrist and presses it against the wound. 

“‘Nothing?’” John echoes. He rises from his chair to grab Sherlock’s free hand and pull him over to the window where the curtains are drawn open and the sunlight makes it easier to see clearly. He pushes Sherlock’s hand out of the way so that he can take a look. The cut is a small but deep gash; it runs through his right eyebrow and wraps around the around the bone of his temple. It is still bleeding profusely, more than expected from something so small. “Christ,” John says again. “Looks like it needs stitches. Lucky for you I’ve done my fair share of them.” He lets go of Sherlock and makes a move towards the stairs to his room, where he keeps a well-stocked medical kit.

“Don’t bother.” Sherlock makes a face at the blood-soaked sleeve of his gown and switches to the left sleeve as he puts pressure on the cut again. “I just need to stop the bleeding, maybe get a bandage on it.”

“‘Don’t bother’? Do I need to remind you that I’m the doctor with the valid medical opinion here?”

“I think you do, otherwise I’ll go on believing you’re just a fool who parrots everything that I say,” Sherlock snarls. “I can’t do stitches. They don’t come with me when I go and they create more damage when they rip themselves out too early.”

John’s face has been screwed up in anger and confusion, but suddenly the refusal of proper medical care makes sense. “Oh… oh, that’s interesting. Wait here, then.” He strides into the kitchen where he keeps a separate, smaller medical kit. After less than a month, living with Sherlock has taught him that you can never have too many. He washes his hands, wets a tea towel, and pulls out a package of cotton gauze from the kit before heading back to Sherlock’s side. “All right, let me see it again.”

Sherlock dutifully lowers his hand and frowns at the blood that now stains this sleeve as well. “This was my favorite robe,” he says petulantly.

“We’ll see if we can save it,” John says as he dabs the tea towel over Sherlock’s brow to remove the smeared traces of blood.

“It’s _silk_ , John, you can’t just wash blood out of silk.” He jerks away lightly at the first touch of the wet cloth, then schools himself to be still while John takes care of him.

John smirks. “Maybe you should think of your propensity for being injured and weigh that against your need to buy ridiculously expensive clothing, then.” Satisfied with his work, he opens the packaging of the gauze and presses the clean material to Sherlock’s head, holding it with steady pressure. “So, how did you find out about your problem with stitches?”

Sherlock’s lips twitch up into one of his barely detectable smiles. “We discovered it when I was seven. I accidentally cut myself with a scalpel while dissecting a seed pod that I found in the garden. Mycroft was supposed to be watching me, so the pain was almost worth his getting into trouble. They rushed me to the A&E to get my finger stitched up, only to have the stress trigger a chrono incident almost as soon as the doctor was finished. We stuck to bandages and good wishes after that.” He holds up the long fingers of his left hand and displays the index one to John. “Scar is still visible, even now.”

John switches his right hand to holding the gauze and takes the proffered finger into his left hand to inspect it. “So it is.” There is a faint pink line scoring down the second knuckle to the third. The cut was deeper, closer to the bone, near to the top of the finger, and the scar tapers to a lighter discoloration where the scalpel made a more shallow drag to the base of the finger. “You got yourself good,” John says with raised eyebrows, impressed that Sherlock sustained something like this so young. Probably didn’t even make a fuss about it, if he was anything like he is now. “Lucky not to have damaged the bone.”

Sherlock nods, then frowns as John fails to move with him. “I’ll hold it myself.” He pushes John’s hand out of the way and presses down on the gauze. “And yes, there was a ban on experimenting with sharp instruments for years after that. Only boring chemical explosions allowed.”

John laughs and shakes his head because he can imagine the ensuing tiny Sherlock tantrums. “I wonder, though, what would happen if it were something more integrated into your body. Say your leg gets mangled because you’re an idiot who goes jumping across rooftops. If it’s necessary to pin the bones together, would the metal get ripped out or would your body consider it a part of itself because it’s more internal?”

“Don’t know and hope to never find out,” Sherlock says with a grimace.

“But that doesn’t keep you from taking senseless risks.” John says it fondly, because, well, aren’t they a pair.

“No. And it never will.” Sherlock gives John a rare full smile, the sort that shows off his teeth and is usually reserved for charming strangers into letting him enter buildings. “I’m just pleased to have excellent teeth because I don’t even want to test your theory on something like a filling.”

\--- 

_23 March 2011_

“How can you possibly be bored?” John asks as he enters the sitting room. Sherlock doesn’t appear to have followed up on his threat to explode any beers yet. He’s actually sitting in his chair using his own laptop for once.

“There’s nothing to do.” Sherlock responds, not bothering to look up. “It’s a simple concept, really.”

John rolls his eyes. “Let’s see. You’ve taken on a new case today, found a body, disproved a suicide. That’s not enough for you?”

“Those were all _hours_ ago, and there’s nothing more that I can do with the case right now.”

“Right then, Bond night it is. Where do you want to get takeaway?” John swivels around, trying to figure out where exactly he stashed his DVDs between all of Sherlock’s things.

“Indian. The good one.” Sherlock snaps his laptop shut and puts it aside. “I’m only agreeing to this on the expectation that if the movie bores me enough I’ll end up in 1987 helping my six-year-old self learn to play the violin or something similar, so by all means please aid my musical education.”

“And I’m only trying to distract myself from a job interview tomorrow and help you get a better understanding of your brother’s career choices,” John says, holding up his Bond box set as he finds it. He’s rewarded by an appreciative smirk from Sherlock.

They make it through one movie before Sherlock pulls out his laptop again to multitask. He doesn’t ask to stop, however, and they end up watching four more before John insists on going to bed—refraining from pointing out that Sherlock has remained solidly in the present the entire time.

\---

_26 March 2011_

Right. So far this case has involved John getting slapped with an ASBO for someone else’s graffiti; chasing after his mad flatmate whilst someone shoots at him inside of a museum, the result of which is the woman he was meant to protect ends up dead; staying up all night slogging through a mountain of books then falling asleep on his first day on the job; having Sherlock misunderstand what exactly a date _is_ and inviting himself along on his with Sarah, where they end up fighting circus performers; and then being kidnapped due to mistaken identity.

The fact that Sherlock’s little time problem kicked in and he disappeared on the way to the museum, barely making it back in time to save them just makes it all worse, somehow. He manages to hold everything in until he’s seen Sarah home and made it back to Baker Street. Sherlock made it home before him and is sitting in the kitchen with the takeaway that was ordered earlier that evening.

“Mrs. Hudson took care of that?” John asks. He peers over Sherlock’s shoulder to see that he hasn’t bothered to heat it up, and is eating the dish that John ordered.

“Must have,” Sherlock says after swallowing a bite. “It was on the table.”

“Yes, well…” John stops, takes a breath, and tries not to sound as tetchy as he feels. “I was knocked out and abducted before it got here, so I’ll have to thank her. Pay her back.” He reaches for Sarah’s order and makes a face, but scrapes it out onto a plate and puts it into the microwave anyway. Better than nothing.

Sherlock remains silent.

That only irritates John further. “So,” he says conversationally as he sits down next to Sherlock and prods at his food with his fork. “Do you make a point to leave at the most inconvenient possible times?”

The look Sherlock gives him is nothing short of murderous. “I don’t ‘make a point’ to do anything regarding my condition. If I did, would I really disappear in the middle of a case? You do realize that it’s an uncontrollable disease, do you not?”

“And that must be very terrible for you, being such a control freak,” John snaps. He drops his fork and pushes his plate away. It knocks a—thankfully plastic—beaker to the floor by Sherlock’s feet.

Sherlock looks hurt and his voice loses its edge. “It is, actually. Not knowing when it might happen, where I might end up, whether or not I’ll have someone waiting there to help me or if I’ll have to fend for myself. It’s certainly not anything I’d do on purpose.”

John sighs and scrubs his hands over his face. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just—I wasn’t expecting to be kidnapped, or to be mistaken for you, or to nearly get my date, who also happens to be my boss, killed. And I’ve been hit on the head and had a gun waved in my face, which is really never something that sits well with me since—well, you know. But I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Sherlock stands up, backs away from the table and looks away, but doesn’t leave. “You know I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. I was lucky enough to only go back two years. Found some clothes and got my hands on the London A to Z so I could translate the message, but I didn’t have the picture with me.”

“And you still managed it?”

“I got there, didn’t I?” Sherlock turns back to him, eyebrow raised.

John can’t help but to smile. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock returns his smile briefly. “I thought so. And when I came back it was fairly obvious that they had you, assumed you knew more than you did, so I went there as quickly as I could.”

“Just in time,” John says quietly. “Listen, I really am—”

“Now,” Sherlock cuts him off with a wave of his hand, “are you going to eat and come watch movies with me, or do I need to continue this James Bond marathon on my own?”

John grins. He knows it’s the closest thing he’ll get to an apology for what happened, not that he’s particularly sure that the blame lies on Sherlock any longer. “Yeah.” He looks down at his plate, then at the tray where Sherlock managed to devour all of his meal and sighs. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t start without me.”

\--- 

_29 March 2011_

John assumes that he’s going to have a normal day. He has a few hours scheduled at the surgery that should keep him out until the evening, but no plans after that. He assumes that Sherlock is off working on a case because he’s not in the flat and there are no tell-tale piles of shoes and clothing to show that he’s disappeared—John even risks a quick look into Sherlock’s surprisingly tidy bedroom to check. When he makes it through his shift without even a text from Sherlock, he amends his initial analysis. Not normal after all, but a day in which his life is not interrupted by the comings and goings of his flatmate. An uneventful day hasn’t qualified as normal in going on two months now.

Some part of him is not at all surprised to hear shots fired when he returns to the flat, because not a day goes by without _something_ happening. He rushes up the stairs expecting some sort of struggle between Sherlock and an assailant, but instead it’s just Sherlock, sitting in his chair and pointing a gun—no, John’s gun—at the wall.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” John asks incredulously, while Sherlock fires off another shot at the wall. He thinks the response is quite restrained, all things considered.

“Bored!” Sherlock bellows.

“ _What_?”

“Bored!” he announces again, and springs up from his chair. He fires two more shots before John snatches the gun from him and unloads the clip. “Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes,” Sherlock says sulkily. “Good job I’m not one of them.”

John stares at him. “So you take it out on the wall?”

“It’s either shoot the wall or disappear, John.” He makes a spectacularly dramatic flop onto the sofa.

“Then I hope you have a very lovely day with yourself and Mycroft,” John says calmly, and locks the gun away in the safe. “What about that Russian case?” he asks.

“Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth the time or the flight. Nothing to do in Minsk so I came back.”

“You—” John stops and stares at him, pursing his lips. “You flew to Minsk? Was that really wise? What if you disappeared on the plane?”

“You’d know if you checked your blog comments and bought that ticket like I asked,” Sherlock says, huffing with annoyance. “Flights are generally short enough not to be a danger. Wouldn’t take the risk of one much longer than a few hours, though.”

“Right. So you just had a case and by all accounts shouldn’t be… shooting up the walls just yet. Or ever, really.”

John is almost certain that Sherlock is trying to start an argument with him, for whatever purpose _that_ might serve. On top of the gun—and he’s only just explained to him how much he doesn’t care for guns, for all the necessity of having one to keep Sherlock safe—there’s a severed head in the refrigerator, and when John complains about it like any normal person, Sherlock starts in on his blog post. John had thought that it would be flattering, seeing his brilliance written up like that, but as usual Sherlock hones in on a small detail—

“Oh, you meant ‘spectacularly ignorant’ in a nice way! Look, it doesn’t matter to me who’s Prime Minister—”

“I _know_ —”

“Or who’s sleeping with who—”

“Or whether the earth goes ‘round the sun,” John says dryly.

“Not that again.” Sherlock sighs. “It’s not important.”

 _You taught it to me_! John wants to scream at him, and he wonders how that possibly could have happened if Sherlock doesn’t know anything about it now. “It’s primary school stuff. How can you not know that?”

“If I ever did, I deleted it.”

“Deleted it?”

Sherlock swings his legs around and sits up to face John. “Listen, this—,” he points at his head, “is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. _Really_ useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“But it’s the solar system!” And French verb conjugation, and how to write in cursive, and long division, and a host of other things that Sherlock helped him do homework on while they sat in his back garden together trying to avoid being noticed.

“Oh, hell! What does that _matter_? All that matters to me is the work. Without that my brain rots.” 

John says nothing, because it’s the first time that the thought has occurred to him. What if Sherlock’s already gone back, already met him as a child? What if he deleted it all because he didn’t even care—no. He can’t let himself think of it that way, but…

“Put _that_ in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world.” With that, Sherlock lies back down and turns his back towards John. He pulls his knees to his chest and it makes John’s breath catch in his throat because it’s just the way he looks before he disappears sometimes.

John’s concern melts away when Sherlock remains in the present. He purses his lips and stands up to grab his jacket.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock looks over his shoulder at him.

“Out,” John says tightly. “Not that it’s important. Feel free to delete it.” He doesn’t bother to grab an overnight bag or wait for a response.

\---

_30 March 2011_

John wakes up feeling distinctly uncomfortable on Sarah’s couch. He couldn’t think of any other place to go after deciding that he absolutely was not interested in returning to the flat. Harry’s was out of the question, and well, that about does it for people other than his sort-of girlfriend whose sofas he could sleep on.

“Told you you should’ve gone with the lilo,” Sarah tells him as he groans and clutches his neck.

“No, no, no. It’s fine. I slept fine. It’s very kind of you.” John rolls his shoulders and makes room for her as she searches around the sofa for the remote.

“Well, maybe next time I’ll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know.” She grins and turns on the TV.

“What about the time after that?”

She raises an eyebrow and doesn’t answer. “So, do you want some breakfast?”

“Love some.”

“Yeah, well you better make it yourself because I’m going to go have a shower.” She flashes another grin, and John watches as she leaves the room, trying to decide if that was an invitation or not. His dating life was a bit derailed by his army service, or at least he dated a different sort of girl then, and before that he was quite a bit younger. Apparently dating works a bit differently in your mid-thirties than it did in the early twenties, and John’s still not sure he’s got it figured out, or if he ever did considering how much Sherlock interrupted his dating life even then.

He’s still considering when the next news story flashes up on the screen: House destroyed on Baker Street. John watches in stunned silence for just a moment, and then he’s up in an instant, grabbing his jacket.

“Sarah! Sarah, I’ve got to run!” he calls out, without waiting for a response.

\---

The building across from the flat has a gaping hole in the side and he can see that the windows in 221b have been boarded up. Must have shattered from the force of the explosion. Sherlock was probably home at the time.

“Sherlock!” John calls while dashing up the stairs. No response. “Sherlock?” He stops short just inside the door to the flat.

“John,” Mycroft says, nodding his head in greeting. He’s sitting in John’s chair, umbrella at his side. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the night Mycroft had John abducted for a talking-to.

“I saw it on the telly. Where is he? Is he all right?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, before Mycroft can answer. He steps through the kitchen and takes a seat in his chair, leaving John looking dazed as he passes by. He reaches one long arm behind his chair to pick up his violin case from its spot on the floor. It’s covered in dust, which he blows off, and he opens the case and pulls the violin into his lap to check it for damage.

“He just came back,” Mycroft explains. “A long one, was it not?”

Sherlock gives a small nod of agreement. “I don’t like the long ones. Disappeared when the explosion happened—just a few minutes after you left, John, lucky you didn’t get caught in it—and just came back about twenty minutes ago. Inconvenient, but on the upside, it was very effective for removing all the glass shards from my skin.”

“They don’t travel with you,” John says, understanding. He’s staring at Sherlock, sweeping his eyes over him to check for damage.

“Right. I’m just fine. 

“I had some of the mess cleaned up before he returned,” Mycroft says with a tight smile towards John. The room is still littered with paper and broken glass, not to mention the dust wafting throughout. “And now he’s not being very grateful for it.”

So much for familial concern. Mycroft’s mostly turned up to convince Sherlock to take on a case rather than to check that his brother is fine after the explosion. Sherlock stubbornly resists, and the case file—along with the duty of solving it, apparently—ends up foisted on John.

“Think it over. Do remember how often you rely on my help with your… situation.” Mycroft looms over Sherlock, one last attempt to intimidate him into doing as he wants. When Sherlock doesn’t rise to the bait, Mycroft turns to John and offers him his hand to shake. “Good-bye, John.” John stands and takes his hand. “See you _very_ soon.” A moment passes between them, and while John can’t read between the lines quite the same way that the Holmes brothers can, he knows that Mycroft expects him to convince Sherlock to do this favor, or Mycroft will be only too glad to spill John’s secret.

John nods his understanding and steps back to watch Mycroft gather his coat and head down the stairs. He waits until he hears the door bang closed to speak. “Why’d you lie? You’ve got nothing on—not a single case. That’s why the wall’s in this state,” he jerks his head towards it to indicate the holes, “and you were so worried about popping out. Though I imagine that was due more to the blast.”

“Self-preservation instinct,” Sherlock admits. “Happens when the adrenaline floods the brain in a fight or flight response.” He curls his lip in distaste at admitting that his reaction might have anything to do with something as mundane as being afraid.

“So why tell your brother you were busy?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Sibling rivalry? Really?”

Sherlock just gives him a hard-edged stare and starts to protest, but his phone begins to ring. He answers and John waits patiently for him to finish the conversation. “Lestrade,” he explains when he ends the call. “I’ve been summoned. Coming?”

John shrugs. “If you want me to.”

“Of course. I’d be lost without my blogger.” He grabs his coat and sweeps out, and John follows behind. He thinks he should be furious still, but that was as good as an apology from Sherlock, and John’s never been very good at not forgiving him.

The case makes John distinctly uncomfortable. It’s obvious that the mastermind behind it is targeting Sherlock, trying to get his attention specifically with that case ripped right from Sherlock’s past, and instead of reacting with caution the madman is over the moon with excitement over the puzzle of it all. Resigned, John tries his best to simply help him solve them in time.

\---

_31 March 2011_

John comes down early in the morning—trouble sleeping, can’t stop thinking about the old woman who was blown up while Sherlock spoke with her on the phone. The person behind this, whoever it is, absolutely terrifies him. The lack of rest makes him a bit bleary-eyed and it takes him a moment to notice that his chair and Sherlock’s are both occupied. It takes even longer—until he’s cleared his throat and both heads whip around to look at him—to realize that both chairs are occupied by Sherlock.

“Ugh, there’s two of you?” John grumbles in mock disgust. “And you both have to take the armchairs? I had enough of sitting on the coffee table yesterday, thanks.”

The Sherlock sitting in his chair quirks a smile and stands up to let John sit. He leans against the arm of Sherlock’s chair instead. John looks at them both together for a while before speaking. “Right, so the one of you who’s sitting down is from the present—you’re wearing the same thing you were yesterday so I take it that you haven’t slept yet.”

“Right,” present Sherlock says with a fond tone at John’s deduction. “I’ve been checking for the next clue, but nothing yet.”

“Then you,” John tips his head at the other, who is dressed in Sherlock’s pajamas, “are from the future?”

He nods. “Two months from now.”

“Fascinating,” John breathes out in awe. “Does this happen often?”

“Not infrequently,” says future Sherlock. “Used to happen more when I was younger. Now there are more people to visit.” He gives John a slow smile that the other Sherlock doesn’t seem to catch.

John snorts softly. “So you ever help yourself with cases you’ve already solved, when you come back?”

Both Sherlocks looks like John may have slapped them. “No!” they say together.

“Right,” John says, suddenly unamused. “You wouldn’t, because the puzzle is the most important thing.”

“Of course it is,” present Sherlock snaps. The one from the future seems to have decided to steer clear of this particular conversation. He would, he does know where it’s going, after all.

“What if someone’s dying? Going to be killed before you can work it out?”

“Even then,” he replies easily.

“Christ,” John says with a humourless laugh. “You’d put your fun above someone’s life?”

Both Sherlocks stare at him, and the one sitting continues the conversation. “It’s not about _fun_ , John. You know why I do this. You know it’s what keeps me here.”

“Right, and your staying in the present is more important than some innocent person’s life.” John stands abruptly and heads towards the kitchen. “I can’t have this conversation with you right now.”

Sherlock snarls and rises from the chair to follow him. The other one stays behind. “To me it _is_ more important than someone else’s life! You treat it like it’s not a big deal, like it’s some fucking walk in the park, a fun party trick, but do you know what it _does_ to me?” His voice barely rises in volume, but the anger is apparent.

John, in contrast, turns on him and begins to shout. “No, I don’t! Because you never fucking _tell_ me!”

Sherlock’s face softens and he steps back. “It’s true, I don’t.” He pauses, considering. “It’s—it’s painful. I think sometimes that it must put a lot of wear on my body, that I must be older than I think I actually am, because time passes at a different rate when I’m gone. And I would do _anything_ to make it stop. And if that means playing a game with a brilliant murderer, then that’s what I’m going to do.”

John listens, hand on his mouth worrying his bottom lip the way he does when he’s particularly distressed. “Look, I don’t—” he pauses and sighs. “Let’s just forget this. Go back, keep yourself company, I’ll bring tea.”

Sherlock is about to protest, but John shoots him a look that sends him into retreat.

John calms himself while he’s in the kitchen alone, considering what Sherlock has said. It is true that he’s never really considered the repercussions of what Chrono-Displacement might do to someone’s—Sherlock’s—body before, mostly because Sherlock never seemed particularly concerned himself. As far as John could tell, it was just a quirk that he had accepted.

It takes some coordination, but he balances three mugs and takes them back into the sitting room. Present Sherlock has settled back into his chair, while the one from the future paces in a tight line beside him. When he sees John he strides over to take two mugs from him. John nods his thanks and sits down in his own chair. They are all silent for a time.

“Just so I know—all of your own issues aside, do you care about the lives that are at stake at all?” John finally asks, quietly.

“Will caring about them help save them?” The future Sherlock is still refusing to participate in the conversation and watches both of them.

“Nope.”

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake. 

“And you find that easy, do you?”

“Yes, very. Is that news to you?”

“No.” John smiles bitterly into his mug. “No.” When he looks up they lock eyes.

“I’ve disappointed you.” Sherlock sounds almost disappointed himself.

“That’s good—that’s a good deduction, yeah.” John’s tone is sarcastic.

Sherlock sighs with exasperation and looks to his future self for help, then scowls when none comes. “ _Don’t_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them. 

John clenches his jaw and says nothing for some time. He looks towards the uncharacteristically quiet Sherlock of the future. “So, anything you can tell us about two months from now?”

“It’s May,” he deadpans. “And that’s about all, really.”

The first Sherlock snorts in amusement. “He does have something he wants to warn me about, though. I can tell from his posture.”

“But he can’t,” John says. He does remember this part very well, even though he’s never wanted to accept it. There are no warnings, no changing major events. Once something has happened it can’t be undone.

“No,” the second Sherlock agrees. “Something always prevents it. I learned it’s best not to fight it, though I do end up travelling to moments that I wish I could have changed.”

“Well that’s reassuring.”

“Terribly,” both Sherlocks say in unison.

“And _that_ ,” John says whilst rising from his chair, “is creepy, so I’m going to leave.”

“Suit yourself,” says the present Sherlock. The one from the future says nothing and does not meet John’s eyes as he walks away towards the stairs to his room.

There’s only one of them when the next clue comes and John, despite his anger, goes with him to help.

\---

Having a bomb strapped to his chest was low on the list of things he thought were likely to happen in the company of Sherlock Holmes. Timeline fuckery, that was a given. Some amount of danger was to be expected, or honestly he’s not sure he could put up with the constant sarcasm. Explosives do seem a little over the line, though.

From the way his hands shake as he strips the vest from him, Sherlock thinks so as well.

“Are _you_ okay?” John asks, breathing heavily as he sinks down. He’s scared, but he can’t help but worry about Sherlock because the way he’s shaking—that usually means one thing.

“That, er... thing you, er, that you did, that—” he clears his throat and _Christ_ John really has got to teach him proper trigger discipline because he pays no mind at all to how he waves that gun around, “—that you offered to do. That was, um, good.”

John wants to laugh at seeing Sherlock’s composure stripped away, because this is when he seems most like _himself_. Feels appropriate to joke at least, because the adrenaline is making everything a bit ridiculous. “I’m glad no one saw that. 

“Hm?”

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

“People do little else.”

Their laughter is pure relief, but within an instant the beam of the laser is back along with Moriarty’s voice. And fuck, Sherlock’s doubled over in a way that undeniably means he’ll be gone soon. _Just a little more time_ , John pleads silently. He straightens up quickly enough to compose himself and face down Moriarty.

They are saved by a phone call, left alone again. Sherlock is still here, but as soon as Moriarty has retreated, he’s slumped down, pulled into a tight ball of limbs. “I can’t—I can’t keep holding on much longer. I’m—” and with that he is gone.

John’s merely thankful that he didn’t disappear a minute sooner.

\---

_1 April 2011_

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock pads quietly into the sitting room, wrapped in his bedsheet.

“Oh!” John jumps out of his chair, nearly spilling his tea, and makes a move towards Sherlock. He stops when he’s waved off.

“I’m fine. Made it back to my bed a few minutes ago. After spending the day in 1989 with _you_ of all people.”

John smiles because finally— _finally—_ it’s started and he doesn’t have to keep it all a secret any more. “Yeah, that happened sometimes.” The understatement only makes his grin broaden. “I wondered when it would start.” He shoos him towards the couch.

“Sometimes?” Sherlock repeats with a raised brow. He does oblige John’s herding and slides smoothly onto the couch, lying down and winding his sheet around more tightly. “I’d say that the presence of one of my suits in your garden shed means that it happens with some frequency. Which means that you’ve been keeping secrets from me, John.”

“I told you about my friend, just didn’t mention that the friend was you,” John says and shrugs. He lifts Sherlock’s feet to slide under them onto the couch and place them in his lap.

“Oh, so—” Sherlock almost looks ashamed to not have put it together already. “Clever lie, John. Made it easier to cover how much you happen to know about my condition without letting on that you were familiar with me specifically.” He sounds more pleased than most would be at being successfully fooled.

“Just following orders.”

“Disappointing that you never actually knew two people with the condition, though. I was hoping to pick your brain—shut up, you know I mean that metaphorically,” he says when John grimaces, “— and compare experiences based on your memories. What do you mean by orders, though?”

“You told me not to tell you anything about the past, not until after the first time you go back, which means now, right?”

“Did I? Seems like a strange request. Telling me wouldn’t change the past or future, after all. Only make it difficult for you to pretend that you’d never met me before.” He makes a contemplative noise deep in his throat.

John chuckles at that. “You have no idea. I’ve thought about it and I think it’s because you wanted to form your own opinions about our friendship without knowing that I become... important to you later. You’re not exactly the sort who’d want to be told how to feel about someone right when you meet them.”

“You do know me well, don't you?” The look that he gives John is so fond, so much like the Sherlock he _knew_ and will know again later, that John’s stomach clenches and he realizes that of course that is who he will be in a matter of time. This is simply the first step. “Better than I realized.”

“Mm, reminds me that there’s a list that I can give you now. Has all the dates that you came to visit me.”

“How many?”

“Plenty; I think there were more than one hundred dates on the list. You remembered every one of them in that gigantic brain of yours and dictated them to me when I was seven.”

“Seven?” Sherlock is momentarily stunned. “I could tell that you knew me well, but I’ve been visiting you since you were seven?”

“Six, actually. The first time I was six.”

Sherlock pulls his legs away from John and swings so that he’s sitting up and steeples his fingers in front of his face, frowning. “That’s—that’s significant.”

“Having your life threatened tends to put things into perspective.”

“Is that—ohhhhh.” Sherlock breathes out the last syllable in surprise. “Oh, it does, doesn’t it?”

And then he’s on his feet, storming out of the sitting room and into his bedroom with a slam of the door, leaving a confused John in his wake.

\---

“Moriarty recognized it before I did,” Sherlock says in way of greeting.

“Hm?” John grunts, still not used to being expected to follow conversations that seemingly start in the middle instead of from the beginning.

“You.” He is using his _keep up, idiot_ voice that only grinds the irritation in.

“Yes, he recognized me. Meeting me at Bart’s probably helped with that, then there was the whole kidnapping bit.”

“Don’t be dense. He recognized that you’re important. Before I did, even.”

“Ta. Glad to know you appreciate my worth.”

“I _said_ don’t be stupid. You know I loathe to repeat myself.” Sherlock shoots John a sharp glare. “He noticed it first, but I did catch up.”

“And?” John raises an eyebrow. “Help the ordinary mind piece this information together, please.”

“You know that the only people I visit when I get sent back are those in my family, correct? Myself, primarily; Mycroft by necessity; Mrs. Hudson, but that might just be an extension of the fact that I’m tied to Baker Street; rarely anyone else. But according to you, I spend a great deal of time visiting you throughout your childhood, into adulthood even.” He holds up the book where the dates are all written in the back pages. “You are anything but ordinary.”

“I didn’t even tell you they were in there, much less where to find it!” John splutters.

“Immaterial. You were going to give it to me anyway, you just became distracted. Which brings me back to my point. Focus, John.”

“On what,” he asks, eyeing the journal in Sherlock’s hands.

“You are _important_. You are—,” he waves a hand, grasping for the correct phrasing, “—you are more than my flatmate or my blogger. Moriarty told me that he would burn the heart out of me, and there you were.”

John’s breath catches in his throat. “I...”

“It’s all fine?” Sherlock asks. His eyes are intent on John and it’s suddenly very noticeable that the space between them has closed, that Sherlock has crowded into his space with characteristic disregard for social niceties. 

John nods and Sherlock takes it for permission, fully pressing his body against him until John’s back is against the wall and their lips have come together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to [beauparadox](http://beauparadox.tumblr.com) and [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas) for beta reading again. The problem with writing time travel? Contradictions and tense changes. Thanks to you two for catching them.
> 
> Chapter warnings: drug use, minor character death.

Sherlock has read accounts from others like him: the CDP, the freaks who just can’t seem to keep themselves rooted in the present timeline. There aren’t many of them, and they primarily share their stories through the anonymity of the internet. He has yet to come across anyone who actually enjoys or appreciates the condition, but really, who would? However, there seems to be a universal sense that their first displacement, the first time that they ended up involuntarily traveling into another timeline, had been a magical experience full of wonder and delight.

Sherlock remembers being terrified.

\---

_23 April 1986 (Sherlock is 5)_

It has been a very ordinary sort of day. Sherlock and Mycroft got to go the the National Maritime Museum in London, mostly because Sherlock had been complaining for weeks that he was bored with his tutor’s lessons. He was very excited for the trip because he had been sure that there would be a real pirate there, or at least some real pirate gold and guns for him to look at it. Mummy even said that Sherlock could wear his pirate hat on the trip, and he would have if Mycroft hadn’t hidden it before they left.

Sherlock is lying in bed, plotting revenge on his brother, when he feels a spasm wrack his body. He instinctively curls in, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. There’s a clenching sensation in his stomach, then a feeling of his skin being pulled in many directions at once. When the feeling fades, he finds that is no longer in his bed at home.

\---

_11 October 2010 (Sherlock is 29)_

Sherlock is trying to quit the cocaine, even though it’s not at all a problem, because some people seem to see it as one. Primarily Lestrade, who has a certain leverage over him because he controls the work. It doesn’t help that Mycroft has somehow sunk his meddling claws into Lestrade and is providing information that the Detective Inspector would ignore for the sake of his case record if Mycroft weren’t shoving his nose in it. Sherlock is trying, really is trying to leave it alone, but it’s very difficult to do because the purpose of the drug is far beyond recreational.

Cocaine, the work, and music: That is the triumvirate of things that keep him in the here and now. Sherlock  thinks that he might be able to voluntarily give up one, if the alternative is having two forcibly taken away from him. Or he could simply get better at hiding the drug use and keep all three; that would be the preferable option.

When Sherlock gets the text message from Lestrade about the crime scene, he is stretched out on his sofa, breathing deep, eyes closed against the onslaught of too much input. It has only been minutes since the injection; his mind is firing white lightning. He is focused. Laser-sharp. Crystalline. He is _here_. Sherlock knows that he should tell Lestrade that he can’t come, that he’s busy and to try again when he has something more challenging to offer, but he has just enough hubris to think that he can do this without anyone noticing.

Lestrade is onto him immediately. Possibly because words are pouring out of Sherlock’s mouth as quickly as his rapid-fire mind can process them, and he is smiling with enough intensity that he’s dimly aware that his facial muscles are sore.

Lestrade pulls him aside. “Look, Sherlock—” His voice is tired, strained. Sherlock can read the past thirty-six hours on him: too much coffee, not enough sleep, reluctant to go home even when there was a lull in his case the previous evening and the opportunity presented itself. Trouble with his wife? His children? Could be that Donovan—Sherlock has to cut off his thoughts, has to school himself to focus on what Lestrade is saying. “Look, you can’t just do this. You can’t come to a crime scene high out of your mind and expect me to ignore it.”

Sherlock huffs with impatience and annoyance. “You don’t understand, Lestrade! I have Chrono-Displacement—”

“I know. I know that,” Lestrade interrupts him tersely. “Keep it down unless you want all of my junior detectives to know as well.”

Sherlock waves his hand to silence the interruption before repeating himself for emphasis. “I have Chrono-Displacement, and _this_ is what keeps me here—keeps me in the present.” He rocks back and forth on his heels, vibrating with intensity.

Lestrade looks at him sadly. “What you have, Sherlock, is a Class A substance that can put you in jail for years, and the most brilliant mind I’ve ever seen. And you’re just fucking wasting it.”

“Wasting it?” Sherlock scoffs. “I solve cases for you, don’t I?”

“You do, but at what cost? You show up here strung out… this isn’t you. This isn’t normal, and you’re going to end up getting yourself hurt over it.”

“Do you need my help or not?” Sherlock spits out. His smile is gone now and the euphoria is falling fast.

“Not like this. Call me when you pull yourself together.” Lestrade doesn’t wait for Sherlock to respond before he walks off, ducks back under the tape, and gets on with his business.

Mycroft is waiting for Sherlock when he returns to his flat on Montague Street.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade informed me that you showed up in an unfit state,” Mycroft says coolly as soon as Sherlock closes the door behind him.

“He would, seeing as he’s shoved so far up your arse—”

“Enough,” Mycroft cuts him off. The calm of his voice is nothing short of infuriating to Sherlock.

“Why are you here? Can’t you satisfy your little guilt complex with a phone call?”

“That only works if you answer the telephone, of course.” Mycroft gives him a tight smile. “I’m concerned about you—already was before I heard what exactly you were up to this evening.”

“Why?” Sherlock asks flippantly.

“You _know_ why, Sherlock. I watch you. I know when you make your… purchases,” he sneers. “I don’t know why you persist despite the opposition from those of us who care about you.”

Sherlock sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “I hate it—not being in control. You know what it’s like, how I’m gone all the time. Or maybe you don’t realize it because you were off at school most of the time.” He levels an accusatory glance at his brother. Twenty-three years since since Mycroft was sent away, and Sherlock hasn’t quite forgiven him. “But this—this I have power over. I decide how much. I calculate the dosage, and I’m quite good at it.” He smiles grimly. “It’s the most useful thing I learned at Oxford: how to get the perfect high.”

“Yes, and there’s part of the problem, brother dear. If you hadn’t been so wrapped up in achieving temporal permanence that way, it’s quite possible that you could have put your mind to use finding a more legitimate cure.”

“Why bother, when this works so well?”

“It might be sufficient for keeping you rooted in time, but you have to know what it’s doing to you. It’s poison, Sherlock, and I won’t keep letting you have access to it. You know that I have the means to cut you off from your money, and you know that I will also stop protecting you from the law if that is what is necessary.”

“None of it is necessary! You keeping your fat nose out of my business is what’s necessary!” Sherlock knows that he’s lost control, that he is shouting while Mycroft watches passively. It only makes him angrier, and the surge of emotion brings with it that uncomfortable pulling feeling that’s all too familiar now. “Now look what you’ve done,” he grits out, staring accusingly at Mycroft before he disappears.

_\---_

_22 April 1986 (Sherlock is 5 and 29)_

Of all the places to have ended up in, The National Maritime Museum was not the one that Sherlock would have expected. It is the middle of the night, and the only lights come from exit signs at the end of the corridors. He is still tense with anger at Mycroft, irritated to have their fight cut short by being the genetic abnormality that he is. It’s only when he hears a little sniffle followed by a quiet sob that he remembers the significance of this place. It’s where he ended up, that first time.

“Sherlock?” he calls out softly.

The crying immediately stops. “Who is it? How do you know my name?” At five years old, Sherlock’s voice is fierce but tiny.

Sherlock wishes, not for the first time, that his clothes travelled with him. He remembers that suddenly being naked and being approached by a naked adult was one of the more distressing aspects of that first trip. Fortunately, his memory is a guidebook for exactly how he should fix this. “My name is Sherlock, too,” he answers, walking to the spot where his younger self is curled up and hiding between two display cases. “Come on, if we go to the gift shop there should be some clothing.” He holds out his hand for the taking.

Even though he is young, Sherlock is suspicious. He eyes the hand held out to him for a few moments and, left with little other choice, decides to take it.  “You don’t have clothes either.”

“Part of the whole time travel problem, unfortunately.” Sherlock begins leading them down the corridor, navigating by memory.

“Time travel?”

“That’s what happened to us, both of us, tonight. You were in your bed at home, then suddenly you time travelled here. It’s yesterday for you now, the day before you come here with Mycroft.”

Young Sherlock accepts this with surprising ease. “This doesn’t happen to most people, does it?”

“It’s something special about us. Not many people can do it. In the future, scientists will study it and find a way to fix it.”

“Are scientists going to take me and study me in a laboratory? Like those monkeys that were in the book?”

Sherlock wants to laugh, but he remembers being truly horrified by the thought that he is different and that he will be caught, and it sobers him. “No. No one is going to do that, I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m you.”

The younger Sherlock studies his adult self, compares their pale skin, dark curls, sharp eyes, and decides that it is true. “Okay. If you say so.”

In the giftshop, they find a tee shirt that falls to the younger Sherlock’s knees, and since the selection of pants is severely lacking, the older makes do with a tee shirt and a souvenir towel wrapped around his waist. “Now, do you want to go see the pirate things again?”

Sherlock nods enthusiastically and they walk there together. He still hasn’t let go of his older self’s hand except as necessary to get dressed. Sherlock isn’t sure why he hasn’t deleted the information by now, why it still sticks in his brain after so many years, but since it’s still there, he tells his younger self a little of what he knows about each object as they come to them. He also remembers how this visit ends—he’ll disappear soon, before they get halfway through the exhibit. Before it happens, he just wants to say something reassuring, but he’s not very good at that. Even when he’s only talking to himself.

“You’re going to be back home soon,” Sherlock tells his younger self, who is yawning and fighting the drooping of his eyelids. “You won’t have another episode like this for a while, and it won’t be a scary one. Just… remember that you’ll be fine after Mycroft leaves, okay?”

“I don’t want him to go,” Sherlock says through a yawn.

“I know. But it will be okay when he does.” He stoops down on one knee to give him a hug. Tiny arms cling to his neck until the younger Sherlock whimpers and disappears back into his own present.

Sherlock has no idea how long he’ll be stuck in this timeline, so he leaves the museum, grateful for the substandard security systems of the 1980s, and sets out in hopes of finding a place to steal some pants and a way to pass the time.

_\---_

_7 October 1980 (John is 6, Sherlock is 34)_

John Watson is lying belly down in the grass of the back garden on a fairly nice autumn day, not too cool just yet, playing by himself with his favorite toy soldiers. He’s had the little green plastic army men since he was a toddler, and they still bear teeth marks from the years when his idea of playing with them mostly involved sticking them in his mouth. He hears a rustling in the privet bushes by the garden shed and looks up to see a man walk out of them, heading for the unlocked shed itself and peering inside. He looks old, the way that all adults do to children, and he has the wildest mess of curly hair that John has ever seen, complete with bits of twig stuck in. He is naked.

He doesn’t appear to have found whatever he was looking for inside of the shed and bangs it closed with a curse. When the man notices that John is watching him, he freezes in place and covers himself with his hands.

“You haven’t got any clothes,” John tells him helpfully.

“Obvious.” He has a deep, rumbling voice, the kind John’s mostly only heard on radio adverts. The man looks around, seems confused. “What year is it?”

He ignores the man's question because he has some of his own. “Are you the Doctor?”

“The what?” His lip curls into a sneer. “I don't look anything like a doctor, don't be stupid.”

“Didn't think so, but had to check, didn't I?” John cranes his neck trying to see past the man, around the side of shed. “You would have a TARDIS if you were the Doctor.”

“A what?” he scoffs impatiently. “Is this one of your television things, John? You know I don't watch that rubbish. Now, again, what year is it?”

“How did you know my name?”

The man stares and John can see that he is thinking carefully before he speaks. “Magic trick,” he says at last. “You haven't met me before, have you?”

John shakes his head.

“Explains why the clothes aren’t here. Yes, well—the year,” he demands again.

John decides it must be important, so he answers: “1980.”

“Oh, brilliant!” The man is suddenly exuberant, and John is so startled that he almost doesn't hear the next bit. “I haven't even been born yet, here. I thought it could work that way, but I didn’t really have proof until now.”

Well, this is easily the most interesting person that he has ever met, this grown up who is so obsessed with the year—funny, they always ask the month and the day at school—and thinks they have met before. Still, there is a problem. He eyes him suspiciously. “Where are your clothes, then?”

“Lost them,” he answers, while waving his hand dismissively as though clothes are not an important matter. “Listen, you'll probably be seeing me again sometime soon. I don't need clothes this time; I can tell I won't be here much longer. But bring some with you next time you come out here to play.”

“Where are you going without any clothes?”

The man studies him for a moment, then leans forward conspiratorially. “Can you keep a secret?” He waits for John to nod affirmative. “I'm a time traveller,” he admits. “The name is Sherlock.”

John is about to scoff, because if he's a time traveller, how does he do the travelling bit with just himself and not even any clothes, when the man hunches over, makes a gagging sound as he grasps his knees to his chest, and disappears.

“Brilliant,” John whispers with awe. He stares at the spot where the man was just standing, waiting to see if he might pop back, before breaking into a huge grin and running inside the house.

The man—Sherlock, he corrects himself—did not tell him that he couldn't tell anyone about him, but John decides not to anyway. It's nice to have something that no one else knows about, not even Harry. From that day forward, John begins to pack a bag every time he goes out to play. He tells his parents that he is pretending to go camping. The bag holds one of his father's old shirts that he nicked off the mending pile, a pair of trousers that he found lying on the wardrobe floor, a pair of his mother’s old house shoes that had ended up in Harry's dress up trunk, and whatever bit of food his mother gives him for a snack that day.

\---

_12 July 1981 (John is 7, Sherlock is 30)_

The next time that they meet, John is ready with the clothes. Sherlock sneers when he takes them, but evidently, he decides that wearing them is preferable to remaining naked and moves behind the shed to get dressed. When Sherlock’s done, John walks behind the shed and takes a seat on the grass. John offers Sherlock his apple—it’s missing a bite because how was he supposed to know that his time traveller would finally come back today? It’s still perfectly good, otherwise—but Sherlock declines.

“Disappearing and reappearing makes me feel ill,” Sherlock explains. He sits down next to John, angled so that he won’t be easily visible from the kitchen window that overlooks the garden, and frowns at the way the house shoes, far too small for his long feet, leave his heels exposed.

“Waiting for you to show up makes _me_ feel ill,” John says crossly. “I started to think it was just a dream.”

Sherlock huffs. “No control over it. Ended up in the Pitts Rivers museum after midnight a few weeks ago.” He frowns and kicks off the shoes. “I have a list of dates for you. They’re all times when I’ll be coming here in the future. Go get a pen and something to write on.”

John runs back to the house and returns clutching his treasured Doctor Who notebook, which he just got for his seventh birthday last week, because he is certain that he will never lose it. He dutifully scrawls down the dates that Sherlock gives him in the back several pages of the notebook, more than one hundred of them. Sherlock rattles off the list faster than John can write it and gets frustrated with having to repeat himself and with John’s frequent stops because his hand cramps.

“Why don’t you just write it?” John snaps at him.

“Because it has to be in your handwriting,” Sherlock snaps back.

“Why?”

“Because that’s just how it is!”

John scowls and dutifully writes on, sticking his tongue out at him on all three occasions when Sherlock says, “Wrong!” and he has to cross out the misheard date and write it anew.

“Now listen,” Sherlock says after John has written the last date he gave him: 5 May 1997. “This next one is the most important one, and you will need to remind me of it after we have met. I will probably ask you to tell me a lot of things in the future, but the only thing that you must be sure to give me are the dates, but only after the first time that I come to see you. This one won’t be one of the dates that I come here, but it is very, very important. It is 15 June 2012.” He watches carefully as John dutifully transcribes the date, then underlines it three times and draws a sloppy star next to it, the ultimate sign of importance.

“What did you mean, the first time that you come see me, though?” John asks after he has finished writing. “The first time that you saw me was—” He pauses to calculate out loud, ticking the months off on his fingers. “—nine months ago.”

“That was the first time for you, but not the first time for me.”

John stares blankly.

“This is the present for you, but the future for me,” Sherlock tries to explain. “It's happening now but it also hasn't happened yet, but it definitely will happen because that––” John still looks uncomprehending so Sherlock just sighs and waves his hand. “It's not important, you'll understand later. Just make sure that you remember.”

John wants to grumble that adults _always_ tell him that he'll understand later, but he's willing to admit that Sherlock might just be right in this case. He tucks his notebook into his bag, now rather empty since Sherlock is wearing the clothes. “How far back in time do you go?” John asks. He’s been wondering since they met.

“Not very,” Sherlock replies. “Far enough to visit you.”

“Oh,” John says glumly.

“What?”

“I just hoped maybe you met a dinosaur once or something.” That’s what John would do if he could time travel.

Sherlock tries to keep a straight face, but he can’t help himself and starts to laugh.

“You don’t have to make fun of me,” John says in a small, hurt voice. He is trying very hard not to pout.

“I’m not making fun of you,” Sherlock assures him. John’s not sure if he believes that because he’s _still_ laughing and it’s really not that funny. “It’s just—no one’s ever asked me anything like that before. Trust it to be you.”

“Was it a clever question, then?”

“Very clever,” Sherlock gives him a small smile.

Placated, John tells Sherlock about what he’s doing in school until he gets called in for tea. When he comes back out, Sherlock is gone, and there is a pile of clothes left in his place. John folds them and sticks them inside the shed, into a corner with two deflated footballs for cover.

The dates in the notebook show that Sherlock’s visits will be few over the next year, but they do pick up later. Most of them fall between 1989 and 1994, slowing down again after that. It’s so far into the future that it seems unfathomable to John now, who at seven years old has a life that primarily revolves around trying to stay out of trouble while whispering with his mates in school, going to football club, and fighting with Harry over what they’ll watch on telly.

\---

_2 March 1982 (John is 7, Sherlock is 32)_

“What do you do?” John asks him the next time he visits. There’s a light drizzle outside, not enough for John to mind it because he has his rain jacket, but Sherlock insists on sitting inside the shed so that he can stay dry.

“Do?” Sherlock echoes.

“You know. All grown ups do something, like have a job.”

“I’m a detective.”

John’s eyes light up with excitement. “You catch bad guys?”

“That’s one way to put it. Mostly my… job,” Sherlock says, his mouth puckering as though the word itself is imbued with an unpleasant taste, “is to see things that others don’t notice.”

“Like what?” John prompts.

“For instance, I can look at you and tell you quite a lot of things about yourself.”

“That’s cheating, though, innit? You probably know all about me from the future.”

“Oh, I do, but you rarely talk about your childhood. At this point in my life, I’ve been visiting you for two years, in measured moments that don’t actually add up to all that much. I think I’ve only seen you this young twice before.”

“Then what can you tell me?”

He steeples his fingers in front of his face and narrows his eyes. They roam carefully over John for some time before he begins to speak. “Your parents encourage you to be independent, or they doubtlessly would have noticed the strange man in their garden by now. They both work, then. Your father does something that pays well enough, but it bores him and he spends a lot of his time… away from home. Your mother has long, irregular hours, and—forgive the one small instance of cheating—you once described her as very caring but also constantly distracted. A nurse is the most likely option based on those facts, and would explain your own interests. I know about Harry, so we’ll skip over her, though I have to point out that she’s not around much either. You attend a Catholic primary school. You have a friend with red hair, and you sit behind a girl with long, dark hair that she plays with during class. There’s a family dog as well, though he must be old and lazy because he’s never out here with you.”

“Cool,” John says with an eager smile.

Sherlock gives him the first genuine corner-to-corner, all-the-way-to-the-eyes smile since they’ve met. “I was right, then?”

“Yeah. Dad isn’t home much and you don’t have to hide it from me—I know he’s usually at the pub. Mum’s a nurse; she takes care of the babies who are born too early. It makes her a little sad sometimes. Harry’s usually busy with her own stuff, ’specially when it’s field hockey season.” He stops and points out a broken field hockey stick in the corner. “That’s hers. Dad almost refused to get her another ’cause she broke that one in a fight.”

Sherlock nods understandingly. “And the rest?”

“I go to St. Pius, but I know how you knew that,” John says, pointing at the badge on his school sweater. Sherlock smiles proudly at that. “My best mate’s named Sean, he’s the one with the red hair, and stuffy, stupid Louise sits in front of me. She hit me in the face with her stupid hair today. Aaaand...” He pauses, seeming to have forgotten the last part.

“Your dog,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Oh yeah! That’s Gladstone. He’s a bulldog, and he’s older than me, so he breathes really funny and doesn’t come outside that much. Always tries to sleep on me when I sit on the sofa.”

“I could see that, by the hair on your trousers.” Sherlock points to his lap, sparsely covered with short, wiry dog hairs.

“You seem like a pretty good detective.”

“ _Very_ good,” Sherlock corrects, and they grin.

\---

_8 September 1982 (John is 8, Sherlock is 30)_

“These clothes are terrible,” Sherlock complains, looking down at himself in dismay. They’re enough to keep him decent, but they won’t be terribly warm when the weather is cooler, and they certainly won’t be acceptable to wear anywhere outside of this fenced in-garden. The trousers are too short—John’s father must be built like his son—and show several inches of pale ankle beneath their hem. The shirt is missing two buttons, and Sherlock’s sharp elbows are in danger of ripping the fabric every time they thrust against it.

“All I could manage,” John reminds him with a shrug.

“I know. Not your fault.” His eyes take on that intense edge that John is starting to recognize as a sign that Sherlock is concentrating and probably not paying attention to him. “Let me see the notebook,” he says after a few moments. Sherlock reaches out and John hands it to him. The notebook has a pen tucked inside that marks the next blank page; Sherlock writes down an address on one page and a long note on the other. John gets bored, lets his mind wander until Sherlock speaks again. “You need to mail the note to this address. He'll send back something that you'll need to hide in your room and give to me when you see me next.” He hands the notebook back to John, who studies the name and address. There’s only one name, and he’s not sure if it’s first or last, but it is pretty distinctive.

“Mycroft? Does everyone have a funny name in the future?”

Sherlock's lips twitch into the slightest of smiles. “It's not that far into the future. You're actually older than I am, when we meet properly.”

John looks a bit dumbstruck by that. “Straaaaange,” he says, drawing the syllables out contemplatively. “So you’ve told me that we will meet when I’m older. We’re friends in the future, then?” John asks hopefully.

“Colleagues,” Sherlock replies, chuckling like it’s a joke.

 _Grown ups are mad_ , John thinks. “How old am I, when you meet me really?”

“Ah, that would be cheating, John.”

“But why?”

“It just is. You have to let it happen as it happens, naturally. You can’t spend your life waiting for the moment when it will.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” John knows it’s a lie. He spends the weeks before Christmas and his birthday wound tight with anticipation, thinking of hardly anything else. It sometimes leads to getting into trouble when he undertakes dangerous missions to peek into his parents’ hiding places in hopes of spotting his presents.

Sherlock knows it, too. “It’s exactly what you’d do.”

\---

_3 October 1982 (John is 8, Sherlock is 32)_

“I lost a tooth,” John announces proudly as soon as Sherlock steps out of the shed. He shoves his tongue through the gap in his teeth to prove it. “Sthee?”

Sherlock smiles fondly. “And hello to you too, John.”

“And I have something even better to show you!” John excitedly holds up for display the manilla envelope that he received in return from Mycroft. It is quite thick, covered in French stamps, bears a postmark from Lille, and is addressed in a childish hand to John Watson. “I told Mum and Dad that I got a pen pal through school,” John explains, handing it over to Sherlock. “It’s so thick I thought they might ask and I was going to tell ’em that he sent me a book in French to practice with, but they didn’t ask about that. What’s inside? I waited for you to open it.”

“Money,” Sherlock answers as he tears impatiently into the envelope, and pulls out a crisp stack of £50 notes. “Oh, Mycroft, you’ve outdone yourself,” he says in an undertone as he counts them and slides them into his pocket. “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome,” John responds with well-trained politeness. “Going shopping, then?”

“If I can manage it quickly enough.” Sherlock starts doing calculations in his head, then pauses with evident confusion. “Where are we, exactly?”

“Chelmsford,” John answers.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose with distaste. “Dull. Not far from London at least.”

John shrugs. “You can’t just pop into a shop in town and be done with it?”

“No,” Sherlock responds decisively, “I most definitely cannot just ‘pop into a shop.’” His tone is mocking.

It doesn’t bother John in the least. “Can I go to London with you?”

“I wouldn’t mind, but I think it would be difficult to explain to your parents that you’re going off with a strange man who may or may not be able to see you safely home.”

“They probably wouldn’t even notice if I left,” John grumbles.

“It’s not just them. Most adults would find it strange for you to be wandering around with me, considering that we don’t look related in the slightest, and I’m dressed like this.” Sherlock sweeps his hand from head to foot to indicate the clothes he’s been borrowing.

John giggles. It’s true that the look doesn’t inspire confidence. “Do you want some real shoes?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Sherlock says emphatically.

John runs into the house and comes back about ten minutes later with a pair of trainers, socks, and a thick grey cardigan. “Dad might miss these,” John tells him as he hands them to Sherlock.

“I should have enough time to get the things I need and bring them back. Better than relying on the post.” Sherlock pulls on the socks then the trainers, wincing a bit as they’re too tight on his toes. “I won’t be able to get anything tailored, but it will do.”

John raises his eyebrows. His experience with clothes mostly involves being dragged around by his mum and forced to try on endless amounts of things he doesn’t care about at all. He gets the feeling that Sherlock is much pickier. “What happens if you can’t make it back before you disappear again?”

“It’s a risk I’ll have to take.” With the cardigan on, Sherlock’s missing buttons and too-short shirt sleeves aren’t nearly as noticeable. “Typically I spend eight hours or more in this timeline, which should be sufficient to get to London and back.”

“I guess I’ll go bother Harry while you’re gone,” John says glumly. He always looks forward to Sherlock days so much, and it feels like he’s being a bit cheated out of this one. “I spend a lot of time waiting around for you, don’t I?”

“Unfortunately.” Sherlock actually sounds sorry, which makes John feel better. “I could make it back before your bedtime. Look over your homework for you.”

He doesn’t, but the next morning, John peeks into the shed before he goes to school just to see if Sherlock made it back at all. The old clothes are tucked in their usual spot. There’s also a box inside, well-hidden from anyone not specifically looking for it, that contains a suit, a few shirts, and some nice shoes. John smiles with pride at his part in the successful mission.

\---

_24 April 1986 (Sherlock is 5, Mycroft is 12)_

“You can’t let them take me, Mycroft.” Sherlock is standing naked and shivering in his brother’s room. He is just short of hysterical, crying harder than he can remember ever having cried in his life. He had felt good, safe, until that pulling sensation hit him again. It _hurt_ and suddenly all the promises from his older self didn’t seem that reassuring any more.

“I know, Sherlock,” Mycroft says soothingly, pulling the duvet from his bed to wrap around his brother. “I would never let anyone do anything to you. You know that.”

Sherlock nods, sniffling. They fight all the time, but he _does_ know. Mycroft always takes care of him. Sherlock sucks in several big, shuddering breaths that help him to stop crying. “You know about what happened to me?” he asks while wiping his eyes on a corner of the duvet.

“I do. I found out some time ago and I’ve just been waiting for it to happen.”

“You could have warned me,” Sherlock says crossly.

“You asked me not to. And really, would you have believed me?”

“No,” Sherlock admits. “I would have thought you were playing a joke.”

Mycroft lets go of his brother and moves to the bookcase by his bed. He picks off one of the thick volumes and pulls a folded piece of paper—lined, with ragged edges, likely torn from a school notebook—which he holds out to Sherlock.

“This came for me in the post, almost four years ago.” Mycroft explains as Sherlock takes the note. “Your handwriting is appalling,” he says, and Sherlock laughs when he unfolds it and looks over the writing. It does not at all resemble the painstakingly slow and careful way that Sherlock forms his letters now. They sit down on the bed together and Sherlock reads.

_Dear Mycroft,_

_This letter will surprise you, because it is from your brother, Sherlock. I believe I might be about twenty months old when you receive this, meaning that you are nine. Don’t worry, I have every faith that you are capable of handling this matter, even now._

_You see, I have a disease—it won’t have manifested itself just yet, that doesn’t happen until I am five years old. At the time of writing I am both 30 years old and relying upon the help of a young friend, and I am your baby brother in the current timeline, relying upon you, Mycroft, and our parents.The disease is called Chrono-Displacement and simply put, it causes me to unwillingly travel in time._

_Here is your part, brother dear: I have to fend for myself in this timeline and I need the resources to do it. My friend cannot help me because he is not as resourceful a child as you and I are (were, will be, however you like to think of it). I need some money, and I need you to secure it by any means possible and send it to the return address on the envelope by which this letter has reached you. Take care to disguise it so that the boy’s parents do not become suspicious._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock_

_P.S. If you require proof, go look in the back of the third drawer of my dresser, behind the clothes, where you will find a message for you._

_P.P.S. I will come to you after the first time that I have time travelled. Please show me this letter and remind me to check inside of my copy of Gray’s Anatomy for notes, periodically. Burn the envelope and any traces of the name and address to which you send your end._

“There was a note taped to the back of that drawer, like the letter said. You couldn’t have done it at the time—you were too young. I still didn’t want to believe it, but then you showed up in my room one day. Older you. It’s hard not to believe after you see that.”

“I know. I met older me tonight too. He was nice.”

Mycroft snorts. “To you, maybe. I found him impatient and bossy.”

“Well he _is_ me. That’s what you think of me now.” Sherlock reads back over the letter. “Did you help him? How did you get the money to send?”

“Your older self helped me to secure the money, actually. Said that Father keeps a stash of it in his desk for gambling and he’d never notice some of it missing. You picked the lock and helped yourself, and if he’s ever noticed, he hasn’t said a word.”

Sherlock is suddenly concerned. “Does that mean I’m a bad person, Mycroft? I know how to get into locked things and I take money from Father.”

“No. It just means that you grow up to be a sort of pirate after all.” Mycroft ruffles Sherlock’s curls affectionately. “It’s past two in the morning now. Let’s get you off to bed.”

\---

_30 July 1988 (John is 14, Sherlock is 34)_

Sherlock sweeps his eyes over John just once as he steps out into the sun. “Congratulations on the girlfriend.”

“How—” John squints up at Sherlock. He’s right, of course, almost always is. It’s a very nice, warm summer’s day, and the girlfriend who Sherlock picked up on immediately is currently swimming in her best friend’s pool and had been very irritated when John insisted that he couldn’t join them.

“Long, dark hair on your shoulders. Can’t be Harry’s, she’s blonde like you. Your mother has dark hair, but she keeps it cropped.”

“You’ve never seen my mum,” John says skeptically.

“I have, actually. She noticed me out here once while you were still at school. I told her that I was looking for a ball that one of my children kicked over the fence. Tried to look a bit hurt that she didn’t recognize me, said I’ve been living here for years now and we’d met before, and it made her feel guilty enough to accept it.”

“Great, now I know you have no problem lying to my mum.”

“I have no issues with lying to an infinite number of people, I assure you.”

“Even better.” John sighs. “Keep explaining, then.”

“Right. Not Harry, not your mother. You go to grammar school now, boys only so it can’t be a girl from your class, but it is from a girl and not a long-haired boy because your school is bound to have meticulous grooming rules to go with that uniform you wear.”

“You’re right,” John admits. “Her name is Louise. We went to primary school together.”

“Ah, yes, the one who sat in front of you and annoyed you when you were seven.”

John groans and claps his hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe that you remember that! Are you going to remember everything embarrassing about me for the rest of my life?”

Sherlock’s laugh is a deep rumble. “You only told me about her a couple of months ago, in my timeline. Not a long stretch for the memory. Though I definitely tend to remember all of the things that you’d like for me to forget, regardless of your age.”

“Wonderful. I’ll look forward to it, ta.” John’s mum and dad have fussed over the fact that he’s gotten a bit sarcastic lately, pointing fingers at his school mates. John privately thinks that Sherlock is to blame for most of it. “Anyway, I’m the only one home if you want to go in, get out of the sun.”

Sherlock nods. “That’s fine.” They start walking the short distance to the back door together. “Why are you home when everyone else is gone?”

“Summer hols,” John answers, pushing the door open and indicating Sherlock should go first. “Mum and Dad are at work and Harry’s taken a trip into London with a group of girls from her school.”

“Summer holidays—July?”

“Yeah. Thirtieth of. Want something to eat?” The back door opens into the kitchen, and it only seems polite to offer while they’re there. Sherlock rarely accepts more than cups of tea, though.

Sherlock considers, makes a face. “Some toast should do it, I think. Still a bit queasy.” He lifts himself to sit on the kitchen counter by the sink, watching while John puts the kettle on and sticks a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. “End of July—that means I’ve missed your birthday by a few weeks.”

“Yep, another one gone with no present from my very best friend in the world.” John grins up at Sherlock. He understands, of course, that their situation isn’t particularly conducive to present-giving, what with Sherlock not being able to bring anything along with him.

“I’ll give you something in my timeline, then. It’ll only be twenty-five or so years late.”

“Only,” John echoes. “Only twenty-five years, no big deal at all.” He puts two sugars into Sherlock’s tea, one in his own, and hands the man his mug and plate of dry toast.

“Not to us.” Sherlock nods his thanks and crunches into the toast. The Watson family toaster tends to be a little overzealous—these slices are less burnt than most he’s been offered over the years.

“Not to you, maybe. That’s just less than twice as long as I’ve been alive, at this point.”

“Getting better at your maths, I see.”

John shoots him a dirty look. “I have friends who want to get together today. I could go do that if you’re just going to insult me.”

“Why don’t you?” Sherlock asks, mouth full.

“Not as exciting,” John admits. “I do have rugby to play this afternoon. You can come watch, if you like.”

“If I’m still here, I will.” Sherlock sets his plate in the sink. “What should we do in the meantime? I take it you’d rather not spend any time on learning things while you’re not in school.” He gives John a look of disapproval.

“Not unless you want to help me practice clarinet.”

“God, no. You still sound like a dying goose when you play that thing, don’t you?”

John grins. “Mostly, yeah.” He tries to think of things they can do indoors. Usually they have to spend the time outside; having access to the house is novel. “Want to play Cluedo?”

“No,” Sherlock dismisses the idea immediately. “You don’t like playing with me.”

“But I’ve never played with you before!”

“You have, in the future. It was tedious for everyone.”

John sighs with exasperation. “You can’t just tell me that I don’t like something I haven’t done! You’re _warping_ me.”

Sherlock shrugs. “My younger self used to tell my older self the same thing. I turned out all right.”

“Dunno if I’d say _that_.”

Sherlock shoots him a glare. “If I really wanted to warp you, I’d let you know that you don’t even like sugar in your tea. You prefer just a splash of milk. Or that your favorite food is Thai, though I don’t think you’ve even tried it at this point. Or—”

“Stop!” John cries. He tries to sound angry, but the effect is ruined by his giggles.

\---

_27 May 1989 (Sherlock is 8 and 15)_

Sherlock picks up the newspaper that sits discarded at the foot of his bed. It’s still a twin bed; they haven’t switched it to a larger one because he’s still small enough that his legs aren’t even close to touching the end just yet. It’s fine for him at eight, but on the few occasions that Sherlock has needed to sleep here whilst time-displaced, like he probably will tonight, it has been quite inconvenient.

“You noticed this article, right?” Sherlock asks his younger self, who is absorbed in a chemistry textbook.

Sherlock looks up. He’s pointing to the article about Carl Powers in the paper. Sherlock doesn’t know why he bothers to ask questions like this when he knows the answer already. “Yeah, it’s suspicious. I asked around and got some more information about it. Why wouldn’t Carl have had his trainers with him when he died? He loved those.”

“Exactly. You should tell someone about that. Those idiots at Scotland Yard won’t have picked up on it.”

“They won’t listen to me.”

“No, they won’t,” Sherlock confirms. “But tell them anyway.” He reaches over and snaps the chemistry book closed, catching his younger self’s fingers in the process. It earns him a fierce glare, which he ignores. “Atomic number fifty-one?”

“Antimony,” he answers immediately.

“Atomic weight?”

“One-twenty-one point seventy-six,” Sherlock rattles off. He quickly spills out what’s on his mind before his older self can ask another question. “Do you ever think that it's strange for you to teach me things like this? I grow up knowing the periodic table, so of course you know it already. But where does the information originate? How do you know it to teach me something that you only know because you are me and I learned it from you?”

“Irrelevant. The important thing is that you know. Now stop stalling so we can move on to your German.”

“You’re _warping_ me,” Sherlock says plaintively.

“I’m making us better, that’s all.” The older Sherlock sighs. “Just trust me on this, all right? I know what we need.”

\---

_5 September 1989 (John is 15, Sherlock is 30)_

“ _Fuck_ , fuck, fuck,” John hears Sherlock repeating like a mantra from the privet bushes. He thinks it might be the first time he’s heard him curse at all, much less with such vehemence.

“Sherlock?” John calls out cautiously.

The stream of curses stops and Sherlock’s head pops around the side of the shed, body still carefully hidden behind. “ _John?_ ” he asks incredulously.

“First time?” John asks knowingly.

Sherlock stares at him, realization slowly—for Sherlock, that is—dawning. “... I’ve been here before.”

John nods. “You told me to let my older self explain it, after the first time it happens. You’ll be back there soon enough.”

“I left in the middle of something very serious. Do you know if… everything is okay?”

“I don’t know anything about that. _You_ never tell me anything.” John makes a face at him before walking away to get Sherlock’s clothes from the shed. He pulls out the box they’re stored in and sets it on the ground as close as he can get to Sherlock without invading his privacy. “Clothes are in here; we keep them in the shed. Just let yourself in and get dressed when you come. I promise not to peek.” He flashes Sherlock a cheeky grin.

“This is very strange,” Sherlock grumbles, pulling the box around the corner so that he can get dressed out of sight.

“At least you’re used to time travelling. Think how I felt the first time you popped up back here.” John pulls his notebook and a pencil from his school bag.

“How long ago was that?”

“I told you, I’ll explain it to you when you get back to your own timeline. It’ll be easier that way, ‘cause I’ll know more then. Right now I just need you to help me with my French composition. It’s due tomorrow.”

“This is what I do? Help you with your homework?”

“Sometimes. Depends on when you come and what I’m working on. I’m complete rubbish with languages.”

“Don’t I know it,” Sherlock says. He steps out so that John can see him again. “Do we just… sit in your back garden unnoticed by everyone?”

“Mostly. I sit by the side of the shed, you sit just a little behind. You figured out that it’s the best angle for you to avoid being seen from inside, while I can still be seen so that no one worries.” John moves into his spot, sitting down on the grass with his back against the shed. Sherlock follows his instruction and sits just around the corner. They’re close enough to touch. “Now, my composition is about the Impressionist painters—” John starts to explain.

Sherlock interrupts him before he can finish. “Just—just give me a moment to get used to this before we do that. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Want me to get you something to eat or drink?”

“No. No, absolutely not.” Sherlock says with a grimace.

“That’s fine. I’ll just work on this.” John sets his pencil to paper, writing slowly with occasional bursts of poorly pronounced French phrases slipping out as he thinks aloud. He has written half a page before Sherlock speaks again.

“I think I’m stable now,” Sherlock says. “Let me see what you have.”

John passes his notebook over. Sherlock takes it and skims, before reading aloud. His accent is much better than John’s. “Les peintres impressionistes sont intéressés á la couleur et la lumiére in their paintings.” He pauses and shoots John a look, which John responds to with a shrug. “Their tableux focused on la couleur et surtout aux effets de la lumiére sur les objets. One of the most famous peintures—oh honestly, John, you can’t just mix in English with French like that. It doesn’t make any sense at all!”

“Well, I told you that I needed help,” John says sullenly. He hands Sherlock his pencil and watches him furiously correct the errors. They make it most of the way through the assignment before Sherlock disappears again.

\---

_16 October 1989 (Sherlock is 8, Mycroft is 15)_

Their parents bring Mycroft home from Eton to break the news. Father is sick: small cell lung cancer, fast-growing, prognosis not good. The doctors give him a year.

Mycroft waits until they’re alone to speak with Sherlock about it. “Did you know?” he asks his brother coolly.

“I did,” Sherlock admits reluctantly. “But there was nothing that I could do.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

“I’ve seen myself dozens of time in the last few months, always trying to tell myself something before I disappear again. I found a piece of paper with my own handwriting. It said ‘tell your father to go to the doctor’ but that was just last month—too late to help. Which is strange because it was inside of a book that I’ve been reading through for ages, and I should have noticed it before.”

“So it’s like that time when you couldn’t stop yourself from telling him and Mummy that you knew about—”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers quickly. “Yes, just like that time.” It’s a moment he revisited often as a seven-year-old. Always popping right back to that day, trying to tell himself _just don’t say anything,_ but it never worked. He ruined everything.

Sherlock doesn’t tell Mycroft that the doctors are wrong. Father will be gone much more quickly than they claim. He thinks it’s easier, not knowing. Wishes that he hadn’t told himself.

\---

_4 February 1990 (John is 15, Sherlock is 35)_

John knows that it’s one of the Sherlock days, but he can’t be bothered to stand by the window and watch for him the way he usually does when it’s cold out and he knows that Sherlock will be coming. Truth is, John hasn’t bothered to do much of anything for the past several days. Not since his father died.

The funeral is later today, in the evening. John is not entirely sure that he’s ready for it. Right now, the house is full of people—neighbors, his parents’ friends from work, his mother’s two sisters who he hasn’t seen in years, Harry’s mates from school. Some of his own friends have dropped in to pay their respects, but none of them stayed long. John hasn’t been in the mood to talk to any of them and retreated to his room after an hour of listening to the mindless chatter around him; lying in bed staring at the ceiling seems like a much better option.

There are two sharp raps at the closed door to his bedroom, but John doesn’t feel much like getting up to answer it. “Not right now,” he calls out, voice rough.

The door opens anyway and Sherlock slips in.

John sits up to stare at him. “How did you...?”

“Lots of people in and out downstairs. No one noticed me come up.” Sherlock sighs heavily and leans against the closed door at his back. “John, I’m—”

“Don’t,” John cuts him off. “If I hear the word ‘sorry’ one more time I’m going to punch something. Don’t tell me you’re sorry, or what a good man he was, or how lucky we were to have him in our lives or any of that bullshit everyone’s been saying since it happened.” He sounds more weary than angry.

Sherlock raises his hands defensively. “Wasn’t going to. Just—I’m willing to listen. If you need to talk.”

John presses his lips into a tight line. “Why aren’t you sorry, though?”

It catches Sherlock off guard. “What—? I didn’t say I wasn’t sympathetic, just that I understand that you don’t want to hear it.”

“I don’t mean sympathetic, I mean sorry!” John snaps at him.

“I’m not sure that I understand the distinction.”

“Sorry for not warning me. You had to know. You wouldn’t even be here on this day, this day especially, if you didn’t know! So why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” John’s voice is angry, but his eyes are filled with tears threatening to spill over.

Sherlock’s face is stricken as he watches John. “I could have,” he admits with some reluctance. “But it wouldn’t have made a difference. Neither of us could have changed it.”

“But I could have _known!”_

Sherlock laughs. It’s a dry laugh, a brittle sound that catches strangely in his throat. “Knowing doesn’t make a difference. It doesn’t make you more prepared, and it doesn’t change _anything_.” Sherlock sits down on the edge of John’s bed, keeping a careful distance from him. “Would it have been better, watching him die, knowing it was happening, and being unable to say anything about it?”

John lets out a defeated rush of breath then sniffles. His hand flies up to fiercely wipe his tears from his cheek. “No—no, I guess not.”

“Acute liver failure, correct?” Sherlock waits for John’s nod of affirmation before continuing. “Well, you know what caused it. I could have told you the first day that you met me, and I doubt you could have done anything to change the inevitable outcome. Even if that were how this worked, which it’s not.”

“Could have tried.”

Sherlock sighs. “You can’t save people from themselves, John.”

“I can try,” John insists.

“I know,” Sherlock says and gives him a sad little smile. “You always do.”

John takes that in stride. He’s gotten used to being told things about himself, and tries to ignore them. “Does it ever hurt less? Losing people?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answers. He considers it a moment longer. “Not really. Not when it’s someone who matters.”

“Wonderful.” Tired of sitting up, John lets himself fall back onto his pillows. The force of his torso hitting the mattress makes the bed bounce and Sherlock, caught unaware and still perched on the very edge, nearly topples off. Sherlock frowns and slides farther up the mattress so that he’s sitting closer to John and is less in danger of being bounced off.

“What’s the year?” Sherlock doesn’t ask John this much these days; it seems like he can usually tell based on John’s apparent age.

“1990,” John answers. “February.”

Sherlock nods. “Somewhere out there I exist with this as my present. That me just lost my own father, just before Christmas,” he confides. His voice does not waver and his face is hard. “I spent most of my time in the years afterwards trying to go back and tell myself, but it never worked.”

“Oh,” John says softly. “Oh, that’s—that’s terrible.”

“It was. Just know that if things could be changed, I’d help you.” Sherlock says. They both fall quiet and John is acutely aware of his uneven breathing. He feels wrung out, exhausted from the expenditure of emotion over the past several days.

“I guess I ought to get dressed,” John says, breaking their silence. “We went out and got me a suit yesterday—the one I used to wear to Mass is too small. Mum stopped making us go a few years ago when she couldn‘t force Dad to do it anymore.” John slides from the bed and goes to his closet, where the suit hangs over the door, still in its garment bag. He unzips the bag, pulls it off the hanger, and tosses it carelessly to the floor. “Wonder if she’ll start making us go again.”

Sherlock sighs. “People do that sometimes, after someone’s died. For reassurance. Or forgiveness, if they feel responsible.”

“Doesn’t seem very reassuring to me. More like thanking God for being a right bastard,” John says bitterly. “You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?” He pulls his jumper over his head; it muffles his voice, and his hair sticks out in staticky peaks after he’s tossed it to the floor.

“I believe what can be observed. Nothing more.”

“Sensible,” John says. He’s buttoning up his white dress shirt now, still wearing his jeans because he had been too modest to strip completely, all off at once, despite the fact that he’s accidentally seen Sherlock in various stages of undress over the years. It’s not the same when it’s John’s body being exposed—Sherlock hardly seems to care about his own body, at any rate—and they’re alone in his bedroom.

Sherlock is too observant, as always. “I can step out, if you like,” he offers.

John flushes, embarrassed to have been caught being embarrassed. “No, it’s no big deal.”

Sherlock does him the courtesy of turning away from him anyway, under the guise of studying his record collection stacked against the wall. Like most people, John has embraced tapes and the odd CD as his method of listening to music, but there is a pile of vinyl there. Sherlock flips through it. It’s 70s rock with plenty of punk thrown in: Sex Pistols, The Clash, Buzzcocks, Stiff Little Fingers. “Didn’t know you had a rebellious streak, John,” Sherlock says with mild amusement.

“Hm?” John has kicked off his jeans and is pulling up his suit trousers. Plain black, just a little too long in the leg—for him to grow into, according to his mother. He looks up and notices Sherlock running his finger over the record sleeves. “Not rebellious, just good music. Bloke up the street gave them to me when he left for uni.” John tucks his shirttail into his trousers and smoothes it all out before reaching for his tie. He’s never actually tied one before, but he thinks he understands the gist of it. He stands in front of the mirror to help himself along.

Sherlock swings his legs back onto the bed and sits watching John again, now that he’s decent. John can see him doing it through his reflection in the mirror. It makes him feel like an idiot, knowing that Sherlock is watching, when his fumblings end with something that doesn’t resemble anything like a properly knotted tie. He gives it three tries before he snaps.

“I can’t get the fucking thing,” John spits out angrily and throws the tie at his bed. In the contrary manner of ties, it snakes sideways and falls to the floor instead. That only frustrates John further, and to his utter humiliation, he begins to cry again.

“Shh,” Sherlock slides across the bed and moves to stand next to John. Sherlock tries to soothe him with a hand rubbing over his left shoulder. It’s strange—Sherlock doesn’t usually touch him. Strange, but nice. Possibly the most comforting thing Sherlock’s ever done. “Come here; let me.”

John rubs his cheeks dry and reaches down to snatch the tie from the floor. He hands it over and Sherlock loops it around his collar, then grabs John by the shoulders to turn him around and position him in front of his dresser mirror again. Sherlock stands behind him and reaches his hands around to tie the knot the way he would if it were around his own neck. His movements are slow and John thinks that he must not do this often either, but he’s better at it than John is, at any rate. Once Sherlock is satisfied that the job is sufficiently well done, he steps back, out of John’s space. “There. Very respectable.”

“Thanks.” John sits on the edge of his bed to pull on his socks and lace up his shoes, then stands and shrugs into his suit jacket. It’s black like his trousers, but it fits him a bit better and the arms aren’t too long. He buttons all three buttons and shoves his hands into the pockets uncomfortably.

Sherlock reaches out and unbuttons the bottom button for him. “Leave it undone except for when you’re standing at the funeral,” he instructs. “You’ll look smarter.”

“Don’t really care,” John says, but makes no move to button it back. “Look—if you want to come too I can lend you a tie.” John says, voice small, hesitant.

“I’m not sure if that’s such a good idea. More chance that people will notice me, then realize that none of them actually know me.”

John nods, then shakes his head. “Yeah, you’re right. It was stupid to ask.”

Sherlock sighs then waves a hand dismissively. “Forget everything I just said. Do you want me there?”

John purses his lips. He knows it’s selfish, but… “Yeah. I do.”

“Then I’m coming.”

\---

“John—” Sherlock says warningly. They’re  standing outside the off-license together, still in their suits and ties straight from the funeral. John had told his mother that he wanted to walk home, and considering that Harry split with her mates just a few moments before, Mrs. Watson didn’t really have a good argument against it. John had just wanted to be alone—well, with Sherlock and not all those other people—with no ulterior motives in mind, but passing the store gives him the idea.

“Don’t question my coping methods.” John says sullenly. “I know Harry’s out doing the same thing right now, and I can’t think of a better idea for tonight.”

“Your father just died from complications related to alcoholism and you want to pass the occasion by drinking yourself into a stupor?”

John sighs with exasperation. Sherlock’s never been overly concerned with doing the right thing, and John doesn’t know why he has to start _now_ of all times. “Look, you know me in the future. Am I an alcoholic?”

“No, but—”

“Then it’s not an issue and you can shut up about it. You don’t have to drink if you don’t approve, but I need your help. If you won’t, I’ll just get it some other way.” John stares at Sherlock fiercely, daring him to call his bluff.

Sherlock’s resolve visibly crumples. “Fine. Give me some money and go try to be inconspicuous. Best if you just walk down the street a bit—you’re terrible at looking like you’re not up to anything.”

John lets that comment slide, because it is sort of true, and fishes a £10 out of his wallet.

Sherlock raises his eyebrow when John hands it to him. “More than that. If I’m drinking with you we won’t be having cheap swill.”

John huffs in irritation but gives him a £20 as well. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“Sufficient.” Sherlock shoves the bills into his trouser pocket and shoos John away.

\---

“Didn’t know you smoked,” John says disapprovingly. They’re halfway through a bottle of red wine, drinking from juice glasses because John didn’t want to attract his mother’s attention by standing on a chair to pull down the wine glasses, when Sherlock pulls out a pack of Benson & Hedges.

“Don’t usually—you won’t let me.” Sherlock flashes a smile and offers the pack towards John, who wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. Sherlock tucks them into the pocket of the coat he’s wearing. It belongs—belonged—to John’s father, is made of heavy wool just like the one that John is wearing. Between the coats and the wine, they’re warm enough, even though it’s near midnight in February and they’re sitting on the cold ground, backs against the shed. “Between you, Mycroft, and the damned NHS, I haven’t had a decent full-tar cigarette since I was in my twenties.”

“That name again. Mycroft. Who is that?” It’s been years since Sherlock’s said it, but it’s not a name that John could just forget.

It takes Sherlock some time to answer because he’s lit his cigarette and his head falls back in pleasure while he savours it. “Can’t you figure it out?” he says as he exhales.

“Let’s see.” John drains his glass and tops it off again to buy time while he thinks. His brain feels a little fuzzy, pleasantly so. “It’s got to be someone important if he can make you do something you don’t want to do. Just as important as me.” John smiles self-indulgently. He’s very proud of his future self, because right now he can’t imagine denying Sherlock anything.

Sherlock only rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile behind it.

“Has to be at least my age or older, ‘cause he sent all that money when I was eight. Probably older because I don’t think I could get my hands on that much money even now.”

“Mycroft is very resourceful, and he had help,” Sherlock informs him.

“Okay, then, but still he couldn’t be younger than me I don’t think. Is he another good friend like me?”

“No, there’s no other friend that I’m as close to.”

John smiles proudly at that. He considers it more and his thoughts flit to Harry; Harry, who just confided her secret to him last month. “Is he—are you boyfriends?”

The look Sherlock gives him is thoroughly disgusted. “Absolutely not. _Think_ about it, John; use your brain. I know you’re capable.”

“Fine, right. Not your boyfriend.” John hadn’t been expecting such a strongly negative reaction to that comment. “Okay, then. He’s important, has some power over you—” Sherlock narrows his eyes at that, “—and he has a very funny name.” John takes a long sip of wine, rolls it around on his tongue before swallowing it down. “Mycroft,” he says, drawing out the second syllable. “Sherlock, I’m just not—oh!” The realization hits John in the middle of protesting that he’s not clever enough to figure this out just from a _name_. “Oh, Mycroft and Sherlock, how wasn’t that connection obvious? Your brother?”

Sherlock nods. “Unfortunately.” He stubs out the remainder of his cigarette and flicks the butt away before turning back to his own wine. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? Get me drunk and have me tell you about the future?”

“You’re not particularly drunk yet, are you?”

“No.” Sherlock holds out his glass and John tops it off.

“Then obviously the plan is working better than I could have hoped.” John flashes a cheeky grin.

“Distracting you enough yet?”

“Yes,” John answers quietly. “Doing a very good job of it actually.” He holds up the bottle, which is now very close to being empty. With a shrug he brings it to his lips and drains the rest. Sherlock makes a rumble of protest, which John silences by tossing the corkscrew, pilfered from the kitchen, to him. “Just open the other one.”

Sherlock nods and complies. He does a much better job of it than John managed on the first bottle. “You won’t be able to find out anything after I stop visiting if you just search the names,” Sherlock warns. “Mycroft is very secretive and takes great care not to be found on the internet.”

“The what?”

“It’s a thing in the future. Something like a library accessible by computer where you can find out all sorts of information about people.”

John gives him a skeptical look. They have a computer in the office at school. It basically seems like an overpriced typewriter, nothing more.

“Just trust me on that,” Sherlock says with a wry chuckle.

“Yeah, I’ll take your word for it. Anyway, I wasn’t planning on looking you up in the phone book or anything like that. I don’t want to fuck anything up, do anything that’ll mean we don’t meet at all.

“I’m not sure that it works that way, but it’s still the best course of action.”

John is vaguely aware that he’s been slowly sliding downwards the longer that they drink, but he’s still surprised when he realizes that he’s completely on his back, looking up at the night sky. He points up and traces a line with his finger. “Sherlock? Which constellation is that?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock is still sitting, and apparently, he hasn’t noticed that John no longer is. He lets out a little snort of laughter and shimmies until he’s also lying down, head close to John’s. “Show me again.” John points again. He’s fairly certain that what he’s indicating is actually a constellation. “Nope, can’t tell what you mean,” Sherlock says.

John huffs and grabs Sherlock’s hand in his own, using it to point again. He thinks they’re the same stars. “ _That_ one,” he says.

“Orion,” Sherlock says decisively.

“Okay, now this one.” John moves their hands together to point out a different set of stars.

Sherlock thinks a moment. “Hercules.”

“Really?”

“No idea.”

They laugh together and John lets their arms fall to the ground, but he doesn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. “My fingers are tingling,” John confides.

“Mine too. I think it means I’ll be leaving soon.”

“You always leave me.” The accusation pours from John’s mouth before he can stop it.

Sherlock lets go of his hand and sits up. “I know,” he says, voice quiet. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock was right about the tingling. He’s gone before John can think of anything else to say.

John looks dejectedly at the spot where Sherlock had just been. He decides to finish the bottle, no use letting it go to waste, but it’s not nearly as pleasurable without the company. When the wine’s gone, he chucks the bottles unceremoniously into the shed to be disposed of later and folds away Sherlock’s clothes, not taking as much time to hide them as he would have normally. It’s not as though his father’s going to be looking inside any time soon. The pleasant tingling sensation he’d had earlier in the evening has faded away into numbness, and his feet feel like lead as he climbs the stairs to his room. He’s just aware enough to note that Harry still hasn’t made it home yet before he collapses, still in his suit, onto his bed.

\---

_14 April 1991 (John is 16, Sherlock is 31)_

The date isn’t on the list, but John happens to look out of the window over the sink as he reaches to get a glass from the cabinet and spots something gleaming white against the shadows in the garden. It’s nighttime, and the only illumination comes from a streetlight just behind their fence and the neighbor’s porch light, and it’s not within the hours when Sherlock usually appears, but damn if John can shake off the feeling that it’s him. Sherlock says that his time travel is random and uncontrollable, but there does seem to be a set of parameters that keep him from showing up in the middle of the night, at least. If it is him, there’s something wrong.

John heads out and finds Sherlock sitting there, still naked, knees clutched to his chest and crying. He looks suddenly very young in his vulnerability—not that he ever looks particularly old to John anymore, not like he did when John was a child. It’s disturbing to see. Sherlock has never been anything but completely in control, strangely enough for a man who time travels naked.

“What’s wrong?” John asks, kneeling down beside him. He doesn’t usually touch Sherlock, not beyond occasional brushes of their hands. Sherlock just isn’t approachable like the rest of his friends, just has an aura of distance that John’s always thought it was best not to breach. He places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and is surprised to feel him lean into his touch. Encouraged, John wraps his arms around his torso, pulling him in. His skin feels far too cold.

Sherlock shakes his head, barely whispers. “It’s nothing. A shock.” It’s a bold-faced lie, but John lets him get away with it, for once, because it’s just so foreign to see him cry.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it,” John says calmly. “But you shouldn’t just stay here like this. You’re freezing.” He considers the logistics—it’s just past 8:00, so his mum is likely watching _Eastenders_ in the sitting room and should be distracted enough by the telly not to notice him sneak Sherlock through the kitchen and up the stairs. Harry is off doing god-knows-what she gets up to these days, so nothing to worry about there. “C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

Sherlock doesn’t seem injured at least and has no problem making it up the steps on his own, but when they make it to John’s room, the energy just goes out of him. He crawls into John’s bed and pulls the sheets and comforter around himself.

“Want me to let you sleep?” John asks. When Sherlock nods, John tucks the blankets more tightly around him and strokes a hand over his hair, the way his mum does when he’s feeling sick. “I’ll still be here, if you need me,” he tells Sherlock, and gets another little nod of acknowledgement in return.

John shivers and, not for the first time, wishes that he were better at figuring out exactly how old Sherlock is. He’d love to have some warning about whatever thing that’s happened that’s bad enough to cause… this. Whatever this is. He can’t shake the feeling of foreboding about Sherlock appearing on a date that’s not on the list.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Jude for helping me work out one of the big issues that I was having with this chapter and making it better, and to beauparadox for her beta reading. I would probably not make it very far without their insightful comments.
> 
> Chapter warnings: mentions of underage sexual activity, brief mention of drug use, sex, violence, unhealthy relationships.

_1 April 2011_

Kissing Sherlock is instantly familiar, for all that it feels slightly different. He’s still impossibly tall, so that John has to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down, and apparently still fond of crowding John against flat surfaces. But it’s the first time for Sherlock, after all, and he doesn’t know their rhythms yet, the things that they both like, or that if he tilts his head just fractionally more to the left they’ll fit together just perfectly so. Sherlock is kissing him desperately, frantically. like he’s so certain that John will put a stop to it that he needs to get his fill of it _now_. It’s gratifying to be the one on the receiving end of that desperation for once—John was always the one doing the chasing, asking permission, before.

“Wait,” John says, and puts his hand on Sherlock’s chest, pushing him away gently.

Sherlock takes a full step back. “Yes, sorry. I don’t know what—”

“No, I don’t mean that. I just—not that I’m not enjoying it, but you can go slower.” John laughs and pulls Sherlock back to him. “I promise I’m not leaving. And I won’t tell you to stop.” _Though I really should_ , he thinks. But this has always been his weakness.

“Not even if I don’t agree to slower? Even if I want to do something that’s by all accounts rather fast?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow. A challenge.

“Since when do you speak in innuendos?” John pulls Sherlock into another kiss, a gentle press of lips and just a soft swipe of tongue. He can feel Sherlock melt into his touch.

“Fine,” Sherlock says after he breaks their kiss. “I can be direct if that’s what you’d like. What if I asked for you to sleep with me?” He bends his head so that his lips brush over the shell of John’s ear. “To fuck me?”

John swallows hard. “I’d tell you to go to my room,” he says after a beat. Doesn’t give himself time to reconsider, or to think about the fact that Sherlock is still a bad habit he can’t quite break.

\---

_31 August 1991 (John is 17, Sherlock is 33)_

John isn’t sure when he starts to think of Sherlock as attractive. It sneaks up on him entirely unexpectedly, and goes mostly unacknowledged because John is _straight_ and he has a girlfriend, thanks, a very attractive one with whom he is more than happy to spend excessive amounts of time snogging on the sofa. He’s always been lucky with girls—they seem to think he’s cute and funny, at least. And he doesn’t think about other blokes that way, at all, but then there’s Sherlock. And, well, Sherlock is the sort of person who trumps all rules and expectations for John. He’s the reason that, on a gorgeous Saturday just before the start of term, John is sitting out in the back garden with a stack of school books waiting for his time travelling private tutor to show up rather than going off and enjoying a last holiday hurrah before being subjected to all the fun of sixth form A-level preparation. There’s a blanket spread out on the ground to keep his books clean and Sherlock’s trousers free of dirt, because of course he can’t just wear easily washable jeans like any normal person.

He finally arrives with a thud and a groan around—John checks his watch—half twelve. “Fancy meeting you here,” John calls out.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock grumbles and brushes himself off before ducking into the shed.

John grins to see that his friend is as good-humoured as always. The grin falters when Sherlock steps out of the shed, still buttoning up that too tight purple shirt and then, because it’s such a warm day out, he rolls the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbows. John thinks he might have actually choked, been strangled by a sudden surge of lust, and _why does he even find this attractive, they’re just arms_.

“What’s wrong? Have I got leaves in my hair again?” Sherlock asks when he notices John’s expression.

“No—well, yes,” John beckons him over and plucks two stray leaves from Sherlock’s curls after he sits down beside him. Sherlock glares at them, as though no mere privet hedge should have the audacity to shed its leaves onto him, no matter how hard his time-displaced body crashes into it. “Yes, it was the leaves,” John says. He clears his throat and gives Sherlock a steady look.

Sherlock knows that John’s lying, and John knows that he knows, but apparently Sherlock doesn’t care enough to pursue it. “What are we working on today?” he asks, sweeping his eyes over John’s books.

“Well, I’ll be sitting Biology, Chemistry, Maths, and Lit A2s this year.”

“No French?” Sherlock asks with a smirk.

“God, no; I’ve got more sense than that. Anyway, take your pick from those. Though maybe the safest option is Maths. That textbook can’t be too terribly inaccurate like the others.” John adopts an overly posh accent for that sentence, in clear mockery of Sherlock.

“Mm, not my fault that your texts are outdated.”

“It’s 1991!” John says with exasperation. It’s a conversation they’ve had before. “Of course this information is twenty years behind your knowledge, because right now it is twenty years ago!”

“Just more than. Still, a feeble excuse,” Sherlock sniffs, but can’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Maths it is.”

“Which did you do?” John asks as he pulls the book from his stack.

“Biology and Chemistry, naturally—my university course was Biochemistry. Then Physics and Music because they were the most interesting options.”

“You haven’t even done Maths, then. Are you sure you’re qualified to help me?” John has to stifle a giggle at the look Sherlock gives him. Arrogant arse.

“I am more than capable of teaching you about a variety of subjects in which I do not possess official qualifications, I think you’ll find.” Sherlock says haughtily.

John’s mind immediately takes that statement to a dangerous place, and he swings his book open to hide the flush creeping over his face.

\---

It’s past midnight and John can’t sleep, so he does what any normal seventeen-year-old boy would do. It starts out innocently enough, considering. He thinks of Emma and the party that they went to together a couple of days before, where she got tipsy and cupped him through his trousers before they left, and thinks of what he would have liked for her to have done instead. It’s easy enough to picture—they’ve done it once before—her on her knees, him sliding into her mouth, his fingers tangling into her short black hair. He stifles a gasp behind his hand as he strokes himself.

But the image in his mind changes; Emma’s straight hair becomes Sherlock’s curls and it’s _his_ mouth that John is thrusting into, his lips stretched around his cock, and his eyes—those sharp eyes that don’t miss anything—staring up at him. John doesn’t picture it for very long, because in just an instant he’s groaning and coming messily in his hand.

“Fuck,” John mutters. It sounds incredibly loud in the quiet darkness of his room. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” he repeats, voice softer. The words are hardly cathartic, because it’s really hit him that he’s got the biggest schoolboy crush of his life and it is on the most entirely inappropriate person. His brain and his libido have staged the cruelest betrayal against him that he could imagine, and he’s not sure what he can do to fix it.

\---

_22 September, 1991 (John is 17, Sherlock is 35)_

John is lying on his back in the grass, notebook propped up on his knees with a half-finished essay scribbled down the page, cap of his biro between his lips as he worries it with his teeth. The cap has been well-chewed by this point, an affectation to make it seem that he is deep in thought when he’s actually stalling for time and staring at Sherlock as much as he thinks that he can get away with. He likes to pretend that the man hasn’t noticed yet, as though anything escaping his notice is likely.

“You should have sex with me,” John says casually, taking the biro out of his mouth to do so. The casual tone takes quite a lot of effort from someone whose heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might burst out of his chest—though the adrenaline rush is what pushes him to say it in the first place and keeps his voice steady as he does.

“You’re seventeen,” Sherlock says, not even bothering to look up from the Biology textbook that he stole from John upon arrival.

“So?”

“Illegal.”

John waves a hand dismissively. It’s a gesture that he’s picked up from present company. “Yes, and you, the time travelling man who disappears at whim, will certainly be jailed for corrupting a minor.”

Sherlock looks up and raises an eyebrow. “You just said the key word yourself: corrupting. Bit not good, don’t you think?” He turns his attention back to the book.

John grumbles and starts to protest. He can’t think of a good argument, though, and gives up in favor of resuming his work. Two sentences further into the essay, he thinks of a question. “Is that the only reason, though?”

“Not entirely.” Sherlock answers evenly.

“Well?” John prompts.

Sherlock sighs and sets the book aside. “I’m more than twice your age right now. I don’t stick around very long when I visit you, and even if I did, I think you’d find that I’m not a dependable person.”

“None of that bothers _me_.”

“Yes, well, no one has ever claimed that you have good sense.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It goes without mentioning that you prefer girls, John.”

“I don’t think I need you to explain my sexual preferences to me. Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Oh, where to start,” Sherlock says with a smirk.

John purses his lips in irritation, then considers other likely reasons for rejection. “Is it because there’s someone else in your present? Someone you’re with?”

“That’s part of it, yes.”

“Oh.” John says. He can feel his heart sink, settling into a hard lump in his stomach that makes his throat feel tight. _Of course_. “Who is it?”

“That’s classified,” Sherlock says tersely. “And I suggest that you stop worrying about this and focus on your studies.”

John would like nothing better than to slink off and sulk about having been mad enough to bring up the idea in the first place. He settles for staying and pretending that everything is fine. “What’s the point? I pass, don’t I?” John says peevishly. He’s not very good at pretending.

Sherlock gives him a sharp look. “You pass because I come here and force you to study, not because you’re naturally brilliant.”

John stares back at him, flexing his hands open and closed in restrained anger. If it were anyone but Sherlock, he probably would have punched him. “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he grits out. “And for not overestimating your contribution.” Sherlock really isn’t _that_ helpful when it comes to studying, other than being dead useful at spotting errors in John’s work.

“Don’t,” Sherlock says sternly, holding up a warning hand. “You’re angry, so you’re taking my words personally. You shouldn’t; you know that honesty is preferable to coddling.”

“Oh yes,” John says. “Nothing but the truth from you. You’re _so_ honest, all the time.”

“When I can be,” Sherlock says, though his tone softens at John’s chastening.

There it is. John hates it, how Sherlock wins every argument because of his uncanny ability to make John feel guilty. “Forget it,” he snaps. “I’ll just finish this and you can tell me everything that’s wrong with it when I’m done.”

\---

_26 December 1992 (John is 18, Sherlock is 30)_

“John?” Sherlock sounds oddly confused and hasn’t started to get dressed yet.

“Yes, it’s me,” John replies with impatience. "Don’t tell me that I've ‘grown so much you can hardly recognize me’ or something like that. I can't punch my aunts for it but I certainly can you.” John’s still feeling bitter from seeing the family yesterday for Christmas. It always feels like mockery when they comment on his height. John opens the shed, digs around for Sherlock’s clothes, and hands them over. He turns to face away from Sherlock out of courtesy.

Sherlock takes his clothes and pulls them on quickly, starting to shiver from standing naked in the cold for a good twenty seconds. “No, nothing like that, I just—” he shakes his head to clear it, “—just got a bit disoriented this time.”

“I can tell. Not nearly as quick as you usually are.”

“I was in the middle of an experiment,” Sherlock explains, shooting John a sharp glare. “Wasn’t expecting to disappear, or to end up here. What’s the date?”

“Boxing Day, 1992. Lucky for you my mum’s gone off to see Harry in London, have a girl’s day. I volunteered to stay home since I knew you were coming. So no worries about being spotted—we can go inside. Freezing out here.” He starts the walk up to the house and Sherlock follows behind. “Usually the dates fall when it’s warmer.”

“Self-preservation instinct for the CDP. Our bodies don’t care enough to keep us rooted in the present, but they also recognize that we’re bound to freeze to death if we’re constantly drawn into winter,” Sherlock says.

“How well do they understand it, when you’re from?” John opens the door and motions for Sherlock to enter ahead of him.

“Not well enough, yet. The first real medical study results were published in 2006, but we’re a difficult group of subjects, disappearing constantly as we do.”

John gives a short laugh. “Yeah, I can imagine. God, I never really think about it from your end. It’s all a bit cocked up, isn’t it?”

“Very much so,” Sherlock says darkly.

John frowns and decides to quickly change the subject. “Toast?”

“No.” Sherlock shakes his head with a grimace. He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and settles himself into it, ruffling his hands through his hair before relaxing with a sigh. “Though... I can’t remember the last time that I ate,” he admits.

John makes a contemplative hum and looks around the kitchen, considering. His eyes fall to a covered tray of biscuits on the counter. “No toast—gingerbread, then?” He pulls the cover off and slides the tray onto the table for Sherlock to help himself. “Neighbours brought them over a few days ago. I think there might be some shortbread in there too, and there’s some plum pudding in the refrigerator if you fancy that.” John’s face makes it clear that he’s not a fan himself.

“These will do,” Sherlock says, already speaking around a star-shaped piece of gingerbread.

John smiles at that, and pulls out a chair for himself. He sits opposite Sherlock, watching him eat. “Am I not taking enough care of you in the present?”

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbles and swallows his bite, then wipes some crumbs from his lips. “You’re not there right now. Went on a trip with your girlfriend.”

“Oh,” John says, surprised. He shrugs and lifts his brows slightly. “Huh.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, eyeing him curiously.

“It’s nothing, just that I can never quite put my finger on our relationship in the future. You say we’re friends, colleagues, and that we live together. Sounds complicated.” John’s tone would suggest that this is a perfectly ordinary conversation. He’s been practicing the art of sounding casual.

Sherlock gives a barely perceptible shrug. He has stopped eating, seems more tense. “It’s not, really.”

“No? Because I mean, it sounds sort of intimate, but then you say I’ve got a girlfriend.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you? I don’t see what I have to do with it.”

John’s confidence falters. This is the first he’s seen of Sherlock since he turned eighteen. Considering that Sherlock’s primary objections were based on his age, John had assumed that with that obstacle out of the way there would be no further problem. He’s had eight months since the last time they saw each other, a term at Bart’s and his first real independence in the interim—time enough to decide what he wants, and decide that it’s probably what Sherlock wants too. Just based on tidbits that he’s gleaned over the years, he feels like he’s on the right track. Or did, until their conversation now. “Well, doesn’t she get jealous of the time I spend with you?”

“I suppose. I wouldn’t know anything about your relationship with her.” Sherlock is being unusually cool with him.

“What about you? Aren’t you dating anyone?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Hardly. That’s more your area.”

John abruptly stands and kicks his chair back under the table. He rakes his hands through his hair in frustration and turns away from Sherlock. “You are just—” John cuts himself off with a huff of breath. “You just confuse me so much. Last time you were here, you told me that you weren’t interested in me, that you were with someone.”

“Last time? I don’t believe that the particular last time you’re referring to has happened for me, not yet. At least I think I would remember if you propositioned me before. You have to remember that for me, this isn’t linear at all.”

“Christ, you just have to make everything that’s already complicated even more complicated, don’t you?” John squares his shoulders and faces Sherlock again. He’s not entirely sure what he’s feeling more strongly—anger or want.

“I don’t even know what you mean. This is rare for me so take note: I am completely lost. You have lost me. Congratulations.” Sherlock’s voice is still cool and even, but he seems tense and ruffled in a completely un-Sherlock way, and is rubbing a hand—not for the first time, and John thinks of how ridiculously long his fingers are—over the back of his neck.

Decision made, John draws in a steadying breath. He closes the space between them until he’s looming over Sherlock, an arm on either side of his face and his hands clenching the chair back. “Right, words aren’t working. Let me try something different.” John slides himself down smoothly to straddle Sherlock’s lap. It brings their faces close together so that he’s staring into Sherlock’s eyes—more grey than green today, pupils blown wide, and he knows what that means because Sherlock taught him to watch for it.

“John,” Sherlock says his name like a warning. He does not push John away.

“Listen: I know what I want. If you don’t, and not because you don’t think it’s okay because of how old we are, or whatever mess we’ve made of ourselves in the future, but because you can honestly say that you’re not interested in me, then now is the time to tell me. Otherwise, shut up and kiss me.”

It’s impossible to read the process of Sherlock’s mind; he has gone still, let his face become carefully blank. John’s not sure, still not one hundred percent sure, until Sherlock’s eyes fall closed and he threads his fingers into John’s hair to pull him close.

When considering it—fantasizing about it, to be perfectly honest—John had thought that kissing a man might feel entirely different from kissing a girl. Harder, sharper, just strange enough that thinking about it set his pulse racing. In practice, he finds that he was right, but for the wrong reasons. Kissing Sherlock is nothing like kissing one of his girlfriends. They had always been soft, yielding, and made John feel like he was asking too much every time he coaxed their lips apart with his tongue. But Sherlock—Sherlock with all of his focus and intensity directed on this—makes him feel desperate. With one hand in John’s hair and the other splayed at the small of his back, holding him tight, it feels like Sherlock wants him more than anyone else in the world ever has. It starts as just a hard press of lips, but when Sherlock’s grip on his hair turns into a tug, John’s mouth falls open and the kiss turns frantic. There’s a clash of their teeth together, then Sherlock is biting, sucking on his bottom lip, and John is breathing so fast that he starts to feel dizzy from it. His hands fly to the sides of Sherlock’s face, holding him there, because John is absolutely certain that he would die if this stopped now.

It’s the knowledge of what their actions are doing to Sherlock that ultimately makes John pull away. John sitting with his legs splayed across Sherlock’s thighs like this makes it obvious when Sherlock starts to get hard; John can feel it underneath him, and his instinctual response is to buck his own hips, to grind against him. It produces a groan from both of them, and a dangerous backwards wobble from the chair that sends Sherlock’s hand flying from John’s head to grip the kitchen table in a panic to keep them from tipping over.

“Sorry,” John says through a gasp. “That was stupid.” He is panting and staring dazed at Sherlock, hands still on his face.

“No,” Sherlock says with a shake of his head that makes him smile as John’s hands move with him. “It was... a very good idea. Just not the best place to execute it.”

John laughs breathlessly. “It is a small chair. Surprised it’s managed to hold both of us this long.” He reluctantly releases Sherlock and, somewhat awkwardly, slides backwards off his lap. “Relocate?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, but when he stands, he grasps John by the shoulders and pulls him into another searing kiss.

“God,” John whimpers into Sherlock’s mouth. “C’mon, upstairs. If we keep standing here I’ll—” He stops abruptly, not wanting to admit that he’s actually going a bit weak in the knees.

Sherlock follows John upstairs wordlessly. When they reach his room, John pulls off his jumper and tee shirt in one go and is starting to unbutton his jeans when he realizes that Sherlock is still fully clothed, watching him intently as he leans against the now-closed bedroom door.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” John asks. He doesn’t let the disappointment he’s feeling at the idea creep into his voice and stares at Sherlock evenly.

Sherlock hesitates before answering. “No. I haven’t.”

“Good. C’mere.” John stops undressing himself with his flies open and reaches out for Sherlock. After he’s within reach, John pushes the jacket from his shoulders and catches it to drape it over the back of his desk chair, instead of letting it fall to the floor as he does with his own things. He starts working open the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, pleased to note that his hands are sure and steady. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to think him nervous.

And Sherlock would notice, as carefully as he’s watching John. They’re both quiet as John pulls the tails of Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers, finishes unbuttoning it, and sets it aside with as much care as he did the jacket. “What do you want from me?” Sherlock asks.

“Fuck,” John gasps, because while Sherlock is speaking, he takes his right hand and drags it up the center of John’s chest, brushing just past his left nipple, until his fingers curl over John’s shoulder. The touch makes him shiver. “God, _everything_.”

That’s met with a raised eyebrow. “What exactly does ‘everything’ entail?”

John can feel his face flushing. “I want to know what it feels like to touch you, to have you touch me. Anything you’re interested in too, really.”

“You’ve had sex before.” It’s a statement, but John nods a yes anyway. “But not with another male.” Sherlock slides his hand back down John’s chest and lets it dip into the waistband of his pants. It’s met with a sharp intake of breath from John.

“Haven’t wanted to. Just you.”

“Me? I’m a man who appears naked in the bushes in your back garden. You’d let me just fuck you—” Sherlock’s lips twitch into a smile because John lets out a breathy moan just then. “Honestly, John? _Teenagers_.” He says the word like a slur. It’s also a reminder of a fact that he’d evidently like to ignore, based on the way that he suddenly can no longer meet John’s eyes.

“You’ve never talked a bit dirty to me before,” John explains, blushing furiously. “I like it. I like it very, very much and think you should do it more. All the time, really, just constantly.” He’s aware that he’s rambling but can’t seem to stop. “Anyway, you’re _you_. Of course I trust you.”

“Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought.” Sherlock has gone serious again. He jerks his hand away from John. “We both must be, because this—”

“Are you going to talk me to death or will you kiss me again?” John asks impatiently. “Because I probably could find someone else more—hey!” He’s caught off guard by a sudden sound from Sherlock that might just have been a frustrated snarl, and he’s being pushed back towards the bed with one hand while Sherlock uses the other to unfasten and shed his own trousers. Inspired by his good idea, John pushes down his jeans and pants and kicks them off after he falls to the bed. He slides up until his head touches his pillow and greedily pulls Sherlock on top of him as soon as he moves close enough to reach.

“God. Fuck,” John hisses out between clenched teeth as Sherlock slides over him, skin to skin. John hooks his legs around the back of Sherlock’s thighs and wraps one hand around Sherlock’s neck to pull him into a kiss while they press against each other. The heavy weight and slickness of Sherlock hard against his belly is exhilarating enough to derail any specific trains of thought or ideas of what exactly he wanted. All John knows is that this is amazing and he never wants it to stop.

Even now there’s something hesitant about Sherlock; he stops kissing John and leans back to look at him. His face is inscrutable, which isn’t completely abnormal for Sherlock, but seems out of place for the situation. “Bit late to have another moral crisis, don’t you think?” John is surprised by the needy whine in his voice.

“Shut up.” Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and snakes a hand between them, wraps those long fingers over both of them together and pulls, twists, pushes. It’s intense, it somehow feels more obscene than anything John’s ever done, and he can’t seem to do more than hold on to Sherlock’s shoulders until he comes. He watches, teeth biting hard into his lower lip, as Sherlock continues to thrust and slide through the mess at John’s hip until he comes as well. It’s filthy, should be disgusting, but instead, it’s the hottest thing John’s ever seen. He grabs Sherlock and kisses him again, a languid slide of tongues that lacks their earlier desperation, before he lets him stretch out bonelessly on the bed next to him.

“So much for your plan to do everything.” Sherlock’s words are muffled because he has his face buried in the pillow, turned out just enough that he can breathe, and is speaking into the curve of John’s shoulder.

“We’ve got time.”

John thinks that Sherlock might be smiling; he can’t see it, but he can feel it, a tickle against his skin. “I suppose we do.”

\---

_2 May 2011_

John is gone for two weeks and Sherlock visits him six times. He hasn’t felt this unrooted since he was twenty-one and head-over-heels for Victor Trevor, though at least then his mind and body had the decency not to betray him, not to send him into Victor’s _childhood_ or anything equally embarrassing. It is embarrassing—might as well be a blinking neon sign, a billboard in Piccadilly Circus screaming, “I am hopelessly infatuated with John Watson!” And Sherlock is. So hopelessly infatuated that he exercised an appalling lack of control today when confronted with an eighteen-year-old incarnation of John sitting in his lap. John isn’t like that at all now—he’s never touched Sherlock without being touched first, and Sherlock’s only given into that temptation twice now. Easy enough to pass it off as an adrenaline response so that John doesn’t find it unusual, doesn’t realise just how strongly Sherlock craves his affection and how often he has to restrain himself. Being presented with a younger John who wants him, who asks to be touched—it would take a better man than Sherlock to say no to that, no matter how wrong it makes him feel.

When did it first start? Sherlock is honestly unsure. He might have deleted it at the time—inconvenient input, a distraction. He can’t afford distractions, not between the work and being presently challenged. Was it the flash of John’s tongue between lips— _it's fine, it's all fine_ —no, too early. Intriguing, though; enough for him to have remembered it. The discovery of the illegal service weapon and that John had had the forethought to remove the powder burns from his hands—possibly the start, unacknowledged as such, but likely. Something started then, at least. Sherlock’s mind is a precision instrument, finely tuned—that only makes it more humiliating to be unable to recall something so simple. When did John begin to matter?

 _That thing you did, that you offered to do—._ Not the exact moment. Before then, certainly, because the pull into John’s past came just after. An important moment, though. Acknowledgement that Sherlock has a heart, that it is John Watson—it’s extraneous information wrapped up around the details of Moriarty, too important to be stricken from record. He can’t delete that entire episode now, not that he’s entirely sure he’d wish to.

It’s just—well he’s never felt it quite as strongly as this before. Only ever been interested in three people, and the other two didn’t even come close to comparing to John.

\---

_16 October 1994 (Sherlock is 13 and 14)_

Eton is blessed with private rooms, so no one has noticed his curious, clothingless absences so far. It was one of his biggest worries when he was informed that he’d be going away just like Mycroft did. It was easy enough for Mycroft to fit in at school; he knew what to say, how to act to appear normal, and he didn’t have a secret just waiting to be discovered. Without the private room, it would be awkward to explain his disappearances and reappearances (he could do it, he’s a good liar already, but it would be tedious), and this—the fact that sometimes there are two of him—would be completely impossible.

His older self isn’t being very helpful today. Sherlock can tell that something is bothering him, from the slump of his shoulders to the slight tilt of his head to the left—sore muscles in his neck due to tension. Shameful that he’s not even trying to hide it. Mycroft would be disappointed if he could see. “Are you here to tell me anything interesting, or are you just going to mope?” Sherlock asks.

His older self shoots him a sharp glare. “I was busy with something, and I’d rather not be here. You have an exciting experiment coming up next year.”

“Does it have explosions, at least?”

“No. It’s an experiment in how long you can stand helping that idiot Charles Morgan learn not to savage the violin and reflect poorly on the rest of the orchestra.”

“Oh, him?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose in distaste. “He’s always out of tune; I don’t know why they keep him on.”

“His money,” he informs himself flatly. “You’ll learn quickly how that works around here.”

“Oh. Hm.” There’s something that’s bothering Sherlock as well. And if he can’t talk about it with himself, who else could he? The thought of asking Mycroft about this particular subject makes him shudder. “There’s this other boy in class, Colin—”

“I know,” his older self cuts him off, then sighs heavily. “Don’t bother with him. You probably won’t listen to me, but it would really save us some embarrassment.”

“It’s just that I’ve heard that he—”

“I _know_ what you heard. I heard it too, remember?”

“I just… since I heard, I can’t stop _thinking_ about it. I want to know what it feels like. I’ll be able to stop after I know.”

Older Sherlock sighs again. It’s annoying how he thinks he knows so much. He moves so that they’re sitting on the bed together. “You won’t. Stop thinking about it, that is. None of us do. It’s called being a teenager.”

They stop speaking and pull each other close. His older self makes the first move, indulging him with a hand down his trousers. “This is weird, isn’t it?” Sherlock asks, then bites his lip to stay quiet.

“I prefer to think of it as having an advantage that everyone else wishes they had as well.”

\---

_3 April 2002 (Sherlock is 21 and 25)_

Sherlock arrives in the Gloucester Green flat to find it in a greater state of disarray than usual. The smashed bottle of wine on the sitting room floor is the first indicator that he’s arrived just after that particular incident. His younger self stretched out on the sofa wearing nothing but a pair of jeans with the flies undone is another sign. Confirmed by the hypodermic needle and paraphernalia spread out across the coffee table. Likely that Victor only just left. He pads into the bedroom, carefully sidestepping a smashed plate in the kitchen along the way, and returns wearing a pair of jeans, a tee shirt, and a cardigan. His flat is cold, and the clothes hang a little loosely.

“Did you at least get the dosage correct?” Sherlock asks himself. He honestly can’t remember that aspect of this day.

“No,” he answers through gritted teeth. “Not quite enough—it wasn’t as pure as I thought. Don’t want to try again just yet.”

“Your left arm is bleeding.” Sherlock doesn’t need to see it to know. He remembers. It’s become so numbing, this feeling of always knowing, always repeating.

“Is it?” His younger self looks down. It’s just a trickle from a long and shallow cut. He sits up and draws his legs in while examining it. “I must have cut myself when he broke the—”

“Specimen box. The one with the bat. I know. It will be easy to buy another case and most of the specimens are undamaged, but you will have to replace one of the beetles.” Sherlock slides onto the sofa. “You should go shower. Get dressed.”

“Mm. Later.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re cold.” Sherlock wonders at what age he’ll finally start listening to himself. Twenty-one was not it.

“Later,” he repeats. “He won’t be coming back, will he?”

“No. He’ll be avoiding you for some time, and he’ll never come back here.” Sherlock says it flatly, disinterested. Hasn’t thought of Victor Trevor in at least three years.

“He called me needy,” younger Sherlock blurts out angrily. “ _Me_ , when it was his idea in the first place.”

If they were younger, Sherlock might have comforted him, placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him into a hug, or combed his fingers through his hair. He can’t remember when that stopped. “You know that he’s wrong. It’s fine in my present—no one to worry about. Sentiment is only a distraction, and I’ve found a steady source of work. You have that to look forward to.”

His eyes light up. “What kind of work?”

“That’s for you to find out,” Sherlock tells him with a smug smile. “Now, if you’ll bother to get dressed, we can go see what sort of trouble we can stir up.” People always have far more interesting reactions when they think they’re speaking with twins. It actually makes the social experiments entertaining instead of merely informative.

\---

_2 May 2011_

Sherlock has been in a strop, alternately hiding in his room or imperiously transforming the kitchen into his own personal laboratory and snapping any time John tries to do something reasonable, like _eating_ , since John returned from his holiday. To be perfectly honest, John doesn’t give a damn because he has his own troubles to worry about. Sarah telling him that they wouldn’t work out because she can’t stand worrying about him, always wondering if running off after Sherlock is going to get him hurt or killed, for one.

John assumes that he’s just been sulking when several hours go by without sight or sound of Sherlock, but when he comes striding into the sitting room barefoot, still doing up the buttons on his shirt, John realizes that he’s been gone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock demands, skipping right past pleasantries as always. “I feel like I have to ask you this question far more than should be necessary.” He sounds frustrated, irritated, but can’t keep a smile from his face and his curls are flattened and sticking out in odd angles like he might have just got up from a nap. It was a good meeting, then.

“What didn’t I tell you this time?” John asks, uncrossing his legs and setting his laptop aside to give Sherlock his attention. There’s always something, some small tidbit of information that Sherlock gleans from looking at his childhood self that he can’t believe he didn’t think to mention. As though John would even remember all of those details, decades later.

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows meaningfully. “Boxing Day. 1992.”

John doesn’t have to think hard to remember that particular day. He gives Sherlock a look of disbelief. “Oh, why didn't I mention that you shagged me when I was a teenager? Other than the fact that it’s kind of an odd thing to bring up in a conversation with your friend who’s only just getting used to the fact that he time travels into your childhood?” Also incredibly awkward when they’re continuing to avoid speaking of the fact that they’ve had sex once more since that first time. Three times now for Sherlock, then.

“A warning would have been nice.” Sherlock settles into his chair across from John.

“Probably,” John agrees. He pauses and thinks of that day, an oft-revisited memory through the years. “No wonder you seemed so twitchy and were so easy to convince. I didn’t realize it was early days for you.”

“I’ll remember to put up a good fight next time,” Sherlock deadpans. “You were tenacious.”

“And you spent a lot of time trying to convince me that I wasn’t interested.”

“Well.” Sherlock is suddenly quieter and more serious. “I knew that we would be apart for some time, and I wanted to encourage you to find someone more appropriate. You do like girls, and you shouldn’t have waited for me.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t wait for you at all. Got a leg over in three continents thanks to the RAMC, ta.” John gives Sherlock a tight smile.

“Good,” Sherlock says decisively. Apparently having decided that the conversation is over, he slides from his chair and retrieves his violin case.

John picks up a medical journal that he’s been putting off reading and flips to the last article that he can remember glancing over. When a few minutes of discordant screeching notes don’t send John scurrying off to his room, Sherlock settles for playing actual music. John doesn’t recognize the piece, though parts of it do sound a little familiar. There is something sad about it that catches John’s attention, makes his chest feel heavy as he listens and watches Sherlock play.

\---

_24 May 2011_

“You are not going on a cruise,” John growls. Actually _growls_ , protectively, probably imagining a time incident that leaves Sherlock to fall splashing into the ocean when he returns and the ship has moved on without him. It’s not an invalid concern.

“You’ll go for me, then? Ought to be easily enough solved, even if I have to rely on your eyes and ears and texts that take too long to type out.”

“By all means, butter me up and talk me into it,” John mutters. “Yes, I’ll go if you keep your bony arse here, in the flat, and if you promise not to get into trouble without me.”

Sherlock considers. It’s possible that he could convince Molly to bring some things from the mortuary to the flat if he gets too bored without John, who should be gone no longer than a day or two at most. An easy enough promise to keep with that provision. “Okay.” John raises an eyebrow and Sherlock sighs. “Okay, I _promise_. Because that word makes all the difference.”

“It does, and I’ll be holding you to that.”

\---

Sherlock is adding different sorts of acids to tissue samples when he receives the first text message from John.

_There’s a rat infestation on board. Thanks so much for passing this one to me._

Sherlock grins and pulls off his gloves to send his own text.

_You insisted, remember. Any clues as to what’s so terrifying about the Matilda Briggs? SH_

It takes a good ten minutes for John to reply, which is fine because it gives Sherlock an opportunity to record the results of his experiment. Just as he expected, but it is good to have empirical evidence in case of a dispute by the Met’s frankly terrible forensics department. It’s as though they’ve never even considered the full range of possibilities criminals have at their disposal for liquidating human tissue.

_So far just the food. I’m sure you would have solved it already if you were here._

_Obviously. SH_

Sherlock sends seven more texts over the next two hours, requesting status updates. They go completely ignored.

_Honestly, John. What use are you as an assistant if you won’t respond to texts? SH_

That one seems to get his attention and takes less than five minutes to get a response.

_Sorry. Met someone at dinner. She’s been on this ship before, is filling me in about the rumours._

_I hardly think middle-aged divorcées are going to be the key to this case. SH_

_How do you know what she’s like?_

_She’s chatting you up, isn’t she? SH_

_Cheers, you bastard. Anyway, she says talk is that there’s some sort of giant rat attacking people in their sleep._

\---

_25 May 2011_

Sherlock spends what should have been night for him—not that he was likely to have slept—on a day with eleven-year-old John instead. At eleven John is still short for his age, but not as solidly built as he becomes later. Athletic for a child, though, and he spends most of the visit talking about the fact that his mother has finally allowed him to join the school rugby club. Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders if they’d have gotten along so well if they met as children. John is obviously a very open and accepting child, but they hardly would have had anything in common at that age.

It’s past nine in the morning when he arrives back, and he sees that he’s missed one text in his absence.

_Did not get killed by a rat in the night. Investigating more today, will send what I find._

Sherlock already has some theories of his own, but he’ll need John to confirm them.

_Are you meeting your new friend again today? SH_

_For lunch. Why?_

_I have my reasons. I’ll call you at half twelve. Make sure she’s with you. I have a theory. SH_

_Is it a theory about how jealous you always are?_

_Hardly. Just do it. SH_

There’s a buzz of voices in the background when John picks up after the third ring. “Hello,” John answers. “Must be important for you to call instead of text.” He’s speaking quietly, cautious of being overheard.

“Like I said, I have a theory. Is she with you?”

“Yes,” John says with a trace of exasperation. “Just like you asked.”

“I need to hear her say something. Anything will do.”

John’s a fairly quick thinker, though Sherlock would never actually tell him that he appreciates that fact in combination with how admirably he performs under pressure. Sherlock can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s turned his head slightly away from the telephone receiver and is speaking to someone next to him. “Listen, my mate can’t believe someone on a pleasure cruise is interested in me, says no one else single ever goes on these things. You mind saying something to show him I’m not making it up?”

Sherlock can hear her laughing. Then her voice comes across loud but distant; John must still be holding the phone. “Dunno why you’d be surprised, when you’ve got such a fit friend as John!” She starts laughing again and John joins in.

Exactly as Sherlock expected. John wouldn’t have picked up on it, but Sherlock would have known immediately from meeting her. She’s done an admirable job of changing her natural speech patterns, but a hint of her accent remains. Australia, probably Brisbane.

“Thank you, that was just the information I needed. I’ll text you.” Sherlock hangs up without waiting for John’s reply.

It takes several hours of research and two nicotine patches—he tries to find the cigarettes, but John hid them too well before leaving—before Sherlock is sure. Far too much work and time involved in accessing missing persons files from 1980s Brisbane. He fires off a text to John.

_Your friend is actually the Tilly Briggs for which the vessel is named. Long lost daughter, trying to commit insurance fraud. Have her detained. SH_

Sherlock doesn’t hear back from John, and enough time passes that he actually considers contacting Mycroft—surely he has some influence over Her Majesty’s Coastguard. He’s pacing a long line between the sitting room and the kitchen when his text alert finally goes off, twice in quick succession.

_Brilliant timing on that information._

_You could’ve warned me earlier, before I nearly got myself poisoned. Luckily I worked that bit out myself. The poisoning, that is._

As it turns out, HMC was involved, and John shows up on the landing shortly after his text sporting the requisite shock blanket. They have a collection now.

“John!” Sherlock is by his side in just a moment, and stops just short of placing his hands on John to check him over.

“I’m fine,” John assures him, waving him away. “You know they give these things out to anyone who so much as breathes out of tempo. I’m knackered, and I’m going to sleep this off.” He takes a step towards the stairs to his room.

Satisfied that John is okay, Sherlock lets his curiosity take over. He grabs John’s elbow to stop him from continuing up the stairs. “Wait! I did solve the major part of the case, but how exactly does the story about the giant rat fit in?”

John turns back to face him and sighs. “It’s complicated and I’m in no mood to explain. Look, I’ll type it all up, make it seem like you were there too so no one will be suspicious about that, and you can see how it all fit together.”

Sherlock can tell that John actually is tired and not simply trying to avoid speaking of the humiliation of nearly being poisoned by a woman he thought was interested in him. He decides he can wait, just this once. “Or you can explain it to me over breakfast.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Is that you offering to make breakfast in the morning?”

“Obviously not,” Sherlock scoffs. “It’s me insisting that you tell me as soon as you’re awake, and threatening to not shut up until you do.”

Anyone else might have missed the flicker of amusement before John takes on a stern tone, but Sherlock is not anyone. “Fine, but not a moment before I’m ready to wake up.”

“Mm,” Sherlock says in agreement. “You know, I think we need a much better system than mobiles for the next time.”

“ _I_ hope there won’t be a next time,” John says wearily. Sherlock’s lips twitch into a smile because that’s nothing if not a challenge. “Now I am going to go sleep, and this is your last warning—if you disturb me I _will_ make your life a living hell.” Another challenge. Good.

\---

_9 June 2011_

“We’re never going to talk about this, are we?” Didn’t even make it to a bedroom this time—they’re sprawled on the sofa, which is honestly not meant to hold them both like this, so that John is very conscious of the sticky mess between their stomachs and the fact that he’s holding too much of Sherlock’s weight on his bad shoulder.

Sherlock sneers against John’s hair. “Must we?”

“Off,” John says, nudging Sherlock as hard as he can. “Can’t talk with you lying on top of me like this.”

“More reason not to have a conversation.”

“Sherlock—” John’s tone carries enough warning to make him finally move, though he grumbles to let it be known that he’s still not happy about it.

Sherlock sits up and moves just far enough away that John can sit up as well. He wrinkles his nose with distaste at the state they’re both in, but makes no move to clean it up. “It’s the adrenaline; you know how it is. Makes me crave things. Food. Sleep. Release.”

“Sex,” John clarifies.

“Sometimes. It’s been a long time since I relied on that. Not since uni—”

“Oh god,” John’s mouth hangs open, because a vivid picture of the possibilities hits him. “It wasn’t that Sebastian bloke then, was it?”

Sherlock shoots him a withering glare. “No. Homophobic. Just another thing he hated about me.”

“Good. Not that he hated you—just that it wasn’t him.” John clenches his jaw. “Didn’t care for him much.”

“Anyway.” Sherlock flicks his eyes upwards, clearly meaning that John is being absurd. “I found something to replace the sex. It was better for me at the time. Less mess. Other positive side-effects related to the condition. I kept that up until just before I met you.”

John snorts softly. “And I’m special?”

“You seemed amenable to the arrangement.” Sherlock shrugs, and John can’t argue. The answer is more or less what he expected to hear, and Sherlock was probably right to want to avoid the conversation. Deciding that it’s over, John reaches for the closest item of clothing to clean himself off with. It’s a black shirt—part of a ninja costume, to be specific, because he and Sherlock just returned to the flat from dressing up and staging a battle in Soho with a comic book geek. He grins and throws the other shirt at Sherlock.

“You realize that our lives are fucking ridiculous, right?”

Sherlock looks startled at first. Then a brief flash of confusion and something John can’t quite place takes over his face, until his eyes flick down at the shirt and he seems to remember what they just did. He starts to laugh and John joins in until his sides hurt.

It takes them both a while to catch their breath, but Sherlock does first. “Dinner?”

Well that’s a sobering question. “Actually, I um—” Is there a protocol for mentioning that he’s made plans with a nurse from the surgery, while they’re both sitting here naked?

“Oh for God’s sake, John,” Sherlock snaps. “You don’t have to hide that you’ve got a date. I’m not mistaking this for anything other than sex.” He’s on his feet and striding into his bedroom before John can think of any response. The slam of Sherlock’s door is undoubtedly loud enough to have a curious Mrs. Hudson up to investigate, so John hastily pulls on his clothes and goes to his own room.

\---

_September 1990 (John is 16, Sherlock is 30)_

John is waiting for Sherlock when he appears this time, sitting with his feet planted in the grass, hands balled into fists against his thighs, and mouth pressed into a tight, thin line. He rises to his feet after Sherlock emerges, dressed, from the shed.

“I need your help,” John says without preamble. “I need you to find someone.”

Sherlock studies him. The John that he visits in the past is subtly different, in ways other than just appearing younger. Still very much himself, but he has yet to develop a rigidity to his posture and is less tightly in control of his emotions. Missing those habits that he picks up over a dozen years of military service. Right now he resembles his older self to the startling degree. It’s the barely restrained anger that does it.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, slowly drawing out the word. “What did this person do?”

“Don’t argue with me on this,” John says steadily. “Can you help me or not?” Sherlock has heard that tone before, but never from _this_ John. It’s real anger; it is danger.

Sherlock knows better than to say no to John when he’s like this, but he needs all of the facts. “I can, but I want to know why.”

John looks as though he might refuse, and his voice cracks when he finally speaks. “It’s Harry, she—” He stops to scrub his face with his palms. “She was done over pretty bad, looks fucking awful. I don’t even know how she managed to get herself home like this...”

“And you’re going to return the favour? With my help?”

“Listen, I’m not asking you to take part; I can handle that myself. But she won’t tell me who did it. I need you for that.”

Sherlock considers. It wouldn’t be the most dangerous thing that he and John have done together, certainly, just an earlier start than he’d always thought. “I can’t promise that I’ll be able to make a definite conclusion without her cooperation, but I’ll do the best that I can. I will need to see her,” he warns. “I can’t go off of nothing at all.”

John nods. “I’ll think of something in case she gets suspicious about who you are, but right now I think she’s too shaken up to care.” He starts leading the way into the house. “Thanks,” he adds, looking over his shoulder to be sure that Sherlock is following.

\---

John is right—Harry looks terrible. Her attacker was obviously male and large, judging by the size of the bruising already present on her face. It’s startling to see her like this, because even with the swelling, the resemblance between the siblings is uncanny. They’re as similar as he and Mycroft are different—same curve to the nose; dark blue irises that others, less observant, mistake for brown; nearly identical shade of sandy blonde hair, though hers is longer, long enough to curl a bit at the ends. Sherlock wonders if they’re still this much alike, two decades later in the present. They haven’t met yet, there.

Stubbornness is also a Watson family trait. She’s hardly cooperative, keeps insisting that her baby brother need not defend her honor, and is exceptionally distrustful of Sherlock. Luckily for John, Sherlock can garner enough pertinent information by examining her—traces of fibres on her clothing, a lingering smell of a certain brand of cigarette and whiskey that isn’t present on her own breath, the size and force apparent behind the marks on her skin, the fact that she was with her girlfriend, obviously had been engaging in public displays of affection bound to offend a certain type of man. Should be enough to find their culprit. Easiest way would be to look for splitting around the knuckles—bound to happen with the force necessary to produce her injuries. According to John, she’s been doing her best to spend her gap year thoroughly pissed, and he knows her favorite places to do it.

It takes Sherlock less than a minute to point him out, and just over two for John to have punched the man in the jaw and have them all thrown out into the street.

“That was my sister you were beating on earlier,” John informs the man, who is rubbing his jaw and flicking his eyes between John and Sherlock, sizing them up.

“Oh, is that right?” he says mockingly. He’s not that much older than John, eighteen or nineteen at the most. Just an angry teenager looking for a reason to cause trouble. “This your boyfriend, then? Should have known you were a fucking queer just like your dyke sister,” he slurs, and Sherlock is on him, shoving John out of the way to pin the man himself and wrap his fingers around his throat because he knows that _this_ is part of it, the start of the problems they’re having in the present and the reason why Sherlock feels like he’s being rent in two every damned day. The reason that John feels the need to insist that he’s not gay to anyone who will listen and still goes on dates with women even though they’re—

“Sherlock!” John is panicking, pulling at the collar of his jacket frantically to make him let go. “Sherlock, stop! You can’t do that, you can’t—”

John is right. And this is just a reminder of why he needs to avoid feeling things like this so deeply. Something bad always happens when he does. Sherlock loosens his grip, but he takes the time to punch the man in the nose just once before releasing him entirely and walking away. He deserves that much.

\---

_13 August 2011_

Harry was doing so well for a time, despite the split from Clara. She learned how to handle herself while John was gone, grew out of public displays of drunkenness, at least, even though she didn’t give up the drink at all. Still, he’s somehow not surprised to find himself needing to go check in on her past midnight. Start of the weekend, start of a drunken stupor. That’s the way it’s always been with her, and as many times as he’s tried, he just can’t let her go through it alone.

A glass of water and two paracetamol later, Harry is stretched out on her sofa, head propped up on one arm. John’s taken her phone and computer away, to save her any potential embarrassment, so that means having to sit and talk with her instead. It’s not so bad. They haven’t had a proper conversation in ages, not since they were kids, really. Naturally, the conversation turns to his flatmate. The two of them have been popping up in the papers a lot lately, getting far more attention than John ever expected. Part of him worries that it will have repercussions relating to Sherlock’s problem.

“Mum and Dad would be really proud, you know,” Harry says.

“Dunno why. I’m just his sidekick. The assistant.” John hopes she’s still too drunk to hear the bitterness in his voice. Even he’s surprised by how the statement came out.

She doesn’t notice, keeps barrelling right along with the conversation. “I saw the picture in today’s paper, the one with him in the hat. And John, you’re not going to believe this, but I swear I’ve met Sherlock before.”

“No, I believe it. You’ve met him twice.” John had hoped she wouldn’t remember either time. She’d been far enough gone for it to be a distinct possibility.

“How, though? I feel like I would remember that.”

John sighs heavily. “It’s a hell of a lot harder to explain than I feel like doing.”

\---

_26 April 1997 (John is 22, Sherlock is 30)_

“Can you at least tell me that I finish this term without going mad? I could use a glimmer of hope for my future.” They’re sitting together in John’s cramped little studio flat, on the single bed that’s the only surface that will hold them both. John is leaning against the headboard, coffee in hand and knees drawn up with a sizeable textbook spread open across them.

Sherlock has taken up the other end of the bed, slumped with his back against the mattress and his legs hanging off to the floor. He doesn’t bother sitting up to talk. “Define ‘going mad,’ because a case could be made. You do stay with the Army longer than your cadetship requires.”

“Is that so? I thought you weren’t supposed to tell me things like that,” John says, teasing.

“Oh, but I set the rules, so I can break them. You make your Army-related decisions without me, anyway.”

John frowns. He hates to be reminded that his visits with Sherlock will soon be coming to an end. His final year of medical school and surgery placement have kept his mind off of it for the better part of the year, but the fact remains that in little more than a week, they’ll reach the final date on the list.

“I think it’s cruel that my very best mate won’t be popping in for a visit when I’m home for training.” John keeps his tone light.

“Not up to me,” Sherlock reminds him. “I’d offer to let you look me up, my present self, I mean, but I don’t think you’d like me very much.”

“Now that I find hard to believe.”

“Mm. I’m sixteen right now. Can you imagine me at sixteen?” Sherlock rolls over onto his side and props his head up against his arm.

“No,” John answers, though in truth he can easily picture Sherlock younger, ganglier, but mostly the same. “But only because I’ve never known you any younger than you are now.” He sets his book aside. “Tell me more about myself.”

“I don’t know much about what you get up to without me, honestly. I do know that you enjoyed your time, liked the danger, and that you still keep in touch with some of the men you served with.”

“The danger? I’m just going in as a medical officer. They hardly get shot at.”

“Right.” Sherlock says. Insufferable, with his half answers.

“And because you know me in the future, nothing too terrible can have happened to me.”

“Now that is dangerous logic—” Sherlock is interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

“Sorry, got to get that.” There are only a handful of people who have this number, and most of them would only call for emergencies. John slides off the bed and picks up the receiver from its spot on his desk. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the phone is small, hesitant. “I need your help, Johnny.” Harry, then. John checks his watch.  Just past eleven on a Saturday night; of course she needs his help.

“Where are you, Harry?” John pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and takes a deep, calming breath. This is another thing that he doesn’t like to think about—who’s going to look after his sister while he’s gone?

“The local. Just outside of it. I don’t… I don’t know if I can get home by myself. I can’t find my keys and...” She trails off.

John can just picture her, staggering around outside the pub barely able to tell which direction to head for home. He’s seen it before. “Look, just stay there. I’m on my way.” He waits for her to agree before hanging up.

“Where does she live?” Sherlock asks. He’s sitting up now, watching John.

“Clapham. Just far enough away to be a bloody pain in my arse.” John sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls on his shoes. “She’s lucky I have the cash for a cab this time.”

“I can always get money for you.”

“No.” John is firm on this, as always. “I can take care of it myself.” He pulls his coat and a spare from the closet. “C’mon,” he says gruffly, tossing the spare coat to Sherlock. “If you’d really like to help, you can pick a lock.”

Between the two of them, they manage to get Harry from the pub to her flat without incident. She hardly seems to register that Sherlock is there at all, not even questioning the fact that he breaks into her flat with ease. There is no conversation on the cab ride home, with John too upset, too angry, too worried to keep his mind on talking, not even with Sherlock.

\---

John is well aware that it’s a terrible idea to keep having sex with the man who is absolutely his best friend, but who has made it plain that he doesn’t give a toss about him romantically. He’s been telling himself as much for years now, but his self-resolve crumbles a little every time Sherlock looks at him, hell, practically every time Sherlock breathes in his presence. It’s only getting worse as they get closer to the last date—John used to be able to resist the temptation, but the knowledge that it might be his last chance combined with his frustration over Harry just makes it impossible tonight.

They’re barely inside the flat, have only just shrugged off their coats, before John pulls Sherlock in, hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt to keep him so close that their chests just brush together. “Will you distract me?”

Sherlock looks at him carefully, always so careful with this that it’s infuriating, like he can’t just take John’s word that he _wants_ this. “If that’s what you’d like.”

Words might not be the best idea—John has a feeling that he’d regret whatever he might say, so he answers him by nuzzling his face against his neck, then sucking gently when he feels the beat of Sherlock’s pulse beneath his lips. Fleetingly he thinks of the most interesting anatomy lesson he ever had, using his fingers and tongue to touch and map the flow of Sherlock’s circulatory system beneath his skin. He’s not surprised to hear Sherlock’s breath hitch, to be pressed against until his back hits the wall two steps behind them. John knows what he likes. He keeps working his mouth along Sherlock’s throat, down the open v of his shirt to dip his tongue into the hollows of his collar bones, until Sherlock’s hand finds its way under his shirt to flatten at the base of his spine with his fingertips curling to just lightly brush across skin. The touch makes John’s hips buck forward. In turn, Sherlock uses the hand at John’s back to tilt him upwards, pressing them together through far too many layers of clothing and making them both groan.

“What I want,” John says, speaking against Sherlock’s skin, “is for you to make me stop thinking about everything that’s going on right now.” Especially about the fact that after the fifth of May, the biggest part of his life so far will be gone, with no clue about when he’ll get it—him—back. “Will you do that for me?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He releases his hold on John, steps back to give him room. “Clothes off. Now.”

John doesn’t ask for this often because it’s overwhelming, just shy of too much sensation to have Sherlock pressing into him, filling him, but when that’s what he wants, it’s wonderful. So easy to just let go and enjoy the feeling washing over him, to trust that Sherlock _has_ him, risky as that might be. Sherlock has him on his knees on the bed—which is really not up to this and creaks like it might fall apart at any moment—and is draped over his back, chest slick with sweat and sliding against John with every shove of his hips. One hand is holding John’s head to the side while Sherlock’s teeth scrape over his neck and the other is entwined with John’s own, bracing them against the bed.

John knows that Sherlock is mostly quiet aside from the sharp hitching of his breath, so when he groans, John can only think of one thing. “Don't you dare disappear on me,” he says with a breathy laugh. “Don't you fucking dare right now.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Sherlock assures him, fingers curling tighter against John’s. He stays.

Afterwards, lying with his head on Sherlock’s chest as it rises and falls, slower and deeper by the moment, reminds him of floating in the ocean; he falls asleep riding the crests and waves of his breathing. The sudden disappearance of the body beneath him wakes him several hours later. It’s always like this, in the end.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I keep gushing about [Jude](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/works)'s help at the start of every chapter? Probably.
> 
> This chapter took longer than expected. I made a [time travelling Sherlock gif set](http://johnfuckingwatson.tumblr.com/post/44152529207/so-im-trying-to-explain-to-mike-that-sherlock) to make up for it.
> 
> Chapter warnings: mentions of spousal abuse, violence, more fun with unhealthy relationship dynamics.

_14 August 2011_

“Bored,” Sherlock announces. It’s easy enough for anyone to deduce just by looking at him. He’s sprawled on the sofa with one leg hooked over the back, the other over the arm, and his head dangling off the cushions toward the floor. It looks incredibly uncomfortable.

“Don’t you have some… pig livers or something in the fridge you can have a go at?” John asks. He’s certain that Sherlock hasn’t pulled the gun from the safe, but he does turn away from his laptop to check, just in case. All’s well, which is good, because spending the night at Harry’s again hasn’t left him in the best mood.

“Mrs. Hudson threw them out. Said they were decaying, which was the _point_ , but no one else understands the scientific importance of these matters.”

“That explains the smell, then. I’ll have to thank her.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, which is less effective at expressing his annoyance when his head is upside down.

“Play your violin? You haven’t in a while.”

“Not in the mood.”

John sighs. “I’m not your taskmaster, Sherlock. Surely you can think of something.”

“Ah!” Sherlock cries, and suddenly he is sitting upright, bent with his elbows on his knees, and staring intently at John. Not for the first time John wonders how exactly he manages to move those long limbs so gracefully—if John had tried to swing himself around the same way, he’d undoubtedly be on the floor.

“Yes?” John prompts, as he is clearly expected to do.

“We need to work out a series of signals. Since your blog”—Sherlock has a certain way of drawing out that word that says he hasn’t forgotten John’s jibe that no one reads his own—“is giving us so many clients, it’s increasingly likely that we’ll run into dangerous situations.

John snorts. They run into plenty of dangerous situations even without the clients he digs up. “We’ve already done that, though.”

Sherlock looks confused. “Have we?”

“You didn’t delete it,” John says with a wry grin. “I was nineteen, you were bored. Must have been older than you are now.”

“Then we’ll practice them, assuming that I’ve told you the same ones that I’ve just thought up. Coptic Patriarchs?”

“Go left,” John answers without hesitation. They practiced them enough when he was young, and they stuck in his head while he did drills in the army. A little piece of Sherlock he kept with him over those years. “Listen, I’m in the middle of something and I’m not going to drop it just because you can’t think of anything better to do than quiz me.”

Sherlock scowls. “My future self is very inconsiderate of my present boredom.”

“Congratulations. You know how the rest of us feel when it comes to interacting with Sherlock Holmes.” John flashes him a sarcastic smile.

Sherlock scowls harder.

_\---_

_2 September 2011_

John is in Dublin, gone for three days for locum work. Doesn’t need the paycheck that badly, surely, not when there’s always plenty of work to be found in London instead, even if he doesn’t have the steady job at the surgery any longer. Must have wanted a break—a break from him. Victor used to do the same. Sherlock makes up his mind to pretend not to notice that he’s gone at all.

It’s difficult to do because life is boring without John. And there’s an observation that he wishes he hadn’t made, because noticing means that it’s true.

Lestrade handed him a case the first day that John was gone—Wednesday. It was a feeble attempt to keep him occupied and took a matter of mere hours to solve. Sherlock hopes that Mycroft wasn’t behind its orchestration, because it means that he’s slipping, if so. Thursday he spends at Bart’s until Molly Hooper leaves and the next histopathologist who comes in chases him out of the lab. It’s Friday now and The Nuisance hasn’t struck, despite the fact that he’s done nothing but sit in his chair and absently play the violin and tidy things up in his mind palace. Sherlock is not at all surprised when he finally gets that pulling feeling in his gut, the sensation of his skin being too tight, that comes along with time travel.

\---

_20 May 2007 (Sherlock is 30 and 26)_

Sherlock hits the ground hard enough to knock the breath right out of him. Pavement. Very unforgiving as far as landing surfaces go. He lies there for well over a minute while his diaphragm spasms, undoing the efforts of the deep—painful, possibly due to a fractured rib; should have John check, if he’s even landed in a timeline that includes John—breaths that ought to fix the issue. This is the problem with transport: terminally unreliable. Unlike any other hypothetical situation, Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to consider the possibilities, had he been just a little higher at the start of his fall. He aches enough as it is.

It’s dark. The smell of the air, once Sherlock manages to get a good breath, confirms that he is in London, though he expected as much from the sound of the traffic. He sits up, wincing, and looks around. He’s in a tiny alley between two buildings, with just a single flickering bulb in the street lamp for illumination. There are trees visible on the other side of a narrow road, which helps him place it—Ashland Place, by Paddington Street Gardens. As streets to land on naked go, it’s a fine one, as evidenced by the fact that there’s no pointing or yelling, or any passersby at all. Perhaps a ten minute walk to Baker Street, and if the timing is right, he ought to have some clothes stashed behind a nearby skip. They’ll smell strange, but it’s good enough to tide him over until he can find something better.

The clothes aren’t there. Earlier than 2009, then, when he finally began making provisions for the fact that his future self apparently enjoyed dropping in on Mrs. Hudson. Not even he is bold enough to stride down Marylebone in this state, so he does what must be done. There’s a flat with the lights off and the ground-floor window left open—people are honestly so _stupid_ , not that he couldn’t have picked his way inside if necessary—where he picks up a passable outfit of things that don’t quite fit but will suffice.

He passes a news stand on the way to Baker Street. 2007. Definitely not meant to be here for John, who’s presumably in Afghanistan at this point. Not interested in seeing Mycroft; he never seeks _him_ out unless he’s unfortunate enough to turn up in the Holmes estate or Mycroft’s own flat. His younger self, well, he would presumably be busy at the moment (he hasn’t... not since John, but it would be very tempting to fall into old habits), and Sherlock’s not terribly interested in his own company at any rate. Mrs. Hudson, then. She hasn’t actually met him properly yet, hasn’t asked for his help in the matter of her husband, but he knows that he visits her as far back as 2005, when the man was first incarcerated.

For someone who hardly even knows him just yet, Mrs. Hudson seems delighted to see him when he turns up on her doorstep. “Sherlock!” She says his name with the same fondness that she does in the present, though it lacks the note of learned exasperation.

“Mrs Hudson, my favorite landlady in all of London—no, all of England,” he says warmly as she sweeps him into a hug.

“Not your landlady just yet,” she tuts. Sherlock is well aware, having landed on the bedroom floor just a few years too early for it to be properly his. There had been a bit of frightened screaming and more than a bit of angry yelling from the current occupants. “Come inside dear, you’re welcome in my own flat any time. When are you coming from?” She ushers him into the kitchen.

“It’s 2011 there,” Sherlock answers. He slides into a chair at her kitchen table and doesn’t protest when she puts the kettle on. The only person who makes a better cup of tea than Mrs. Hudson is John. Sherlock hasn’t stopped aching since he landed and could do with the comfort.

“Oh, you’ll have only just moved in then, yes?” Mrs. Hudson says as she bustles around, dropping tea bags into two mugs—chamomile for herself, as it is after dark, and a bag of Yorkshire Gold for him, because she knows that he doesn’t care to go without caffeine.

It takes him a beat longer than usual to respond, because he’s a bit struck by the fact that Mrs. Hudson has probably only met him a handful of times and already cares enough to know what tea he prefers and will freely give him a kiss on the cheek, when he hasn’t even _done_ anything to deserve it yet. Mrs. Hudson is a wonder, and he doesn’t understand it at all, but he’s grateful for it.

“We’ve been there about seven months now,” Sherlock answers.

“We? Shacking up with someone special, are you?” Mrs. Hudson turns around from watching the kettle to raise an eyebrow at him.

“No, not like that. Just a flatmate. His name is John; you’ll like him. He’s”—He stops, searching for the word, and settles on one that he’s heard often enough—“brilliant.”

“Two brilliant men living upstairs, I’m sure that will be a delight.” From anyone else it would have been sarcastic, but Mrs. Hudson is completely genuine. She slides his mug in front of him and hers onto the table across from him and places the sugar dish on the table with a spoon. “I think the scones are all gone,” she says, peering into the refrigerator.

“No need for food,” Sherlock says with a grimace.

“Hush, you,” Mrs. Hudson says sternly, still speaking into the depths of the refrigerator. “I could feel your ribs when I hugged you, so you won’t be leaving this flat without eating something, Sherlock Holmes.” She settles on the contents of a wrapped cake plate, which she uncovers and cuts two slices from.

Sherlock can’t help but to smile and is grateful that she’s not looking. “Only because you insist.”

“I also insist that you have some paracetamol. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how stiffly you’re sitting. Hardly bother to take care of yourself at all; I hope that John fellow is capable of talking some sense into you.” Mrs. Hudson sets a plate and fork in front of him.

“He tries,” Sherlock assures her. He makes a face, weighing the roiling of his stomach against the desire to please Mrs. Hudson. It’s some sort of cake that smells of cinnamon, which he does tend to enjoy. When he’s not having time travel-induced nausea, at least.

“Cinnamon sponge cake,” she confirms, and hands him two paracetamol tablets. Those he swallows gratefully with his tea before giving in and taking a bite of cake.

“It’s very good,” Sherlock says, surprised to find that it’s true. Not because he doubts her cooking, but because the bite goes down easily and he doesn’t feel the least bit ill. Apparently it’s easy to confuse nausea with hunger, even when one is a genius.

Mrs. Hudson nods her thanks and takes a bite of her own. Swallows. “It’s a favorite of Frank’s,” she adds, conversationally. The smile that she gives him is tight, and they lapse into silence while they finish their slices and drink their tea.

Sherlock uses the quiet to think of something that’s been nagging at his brain for some time now. Something he hates to admit that he doesn’t understand. “Do you love him?”

The sudden question seems to startle Mrs. Hudson. “What?”

“Your husband, Mrs. Hudson—do keep up. Do you love your husband?”

She sighs, considers. “I suppose that I do, in a way. And probably always will.”

And that is what Sherlock can’t understand. Or believes that he can’t. “Even though he hit you.”

“Once. He learned very quickly not to make that mistake again.” She says it evenly, with just a hint of that strength that no one else seems to find. Others look at Olivia Hudson and see a soft, frail woman. Sherlock knows better. She is a rock who can weather more than even he can imagine. She reminds him of his mother in that, though Mrs. Hudson is tender in ways that no Holmes seems to be capable of.

“Hurt you, then. You haven’t seen him in years, but you can’t say that he doesn’t hurt you, still.”

“Yes, well. That’s love sometimes, isn’t it?”

 _Is it_? “Hateful.”

She doesn’t disagree.

“You’re quite safe from him,” Sherlock says fiercely. “Now. You have me, and John will be looking out for you as well.”

“I know, dear.” Mrs. Hudson reaches over and pats his hand. “Why else would I agree to give you such a good rate when you finally show up properly?”

Sherlock smiles and—he’s feeling generous—takes their plates to the sink to wash up. “We’ll see how you feel in the end about that decision.”

“I’m sure you have me fooled into thinking you’re a model tenant at the moment. Now I don’t want to chase you out, but it’s time I take something for my hip and have a lie down. You’re welcome to the couch, if you’d like.”

“Oh no,” Sherlock says, raising his voice to be heard over the running water. “It’s night time in London, plenty to do.” Figuring out where Lestrade might be, for one. Hopefully he’ll have a good puzzle to distract him.

\---

_3 September 2011_

John’s not sure what the difference hinges on: his own age, Sherlock’s, or the fact that they’re almost constantly in each other’s company in the present, rather than occasional meetings in the past. Whatever the cause, the difference is that John finds Sherlock absolutely bloody infuriating sometimes.

Today, for instance, when he refuses to acknowledge that John’s just returned from three days away (three, frankly, absolutely boring days that he spent trying not to think of the things he could be doing at Baker Street instead), refuses to get out of bed, refuses to let John look him over when he finally _does_ get out of bed (Sherlock’s moving stiffly enough that John knows that he’s hurt himself somehow), refuses to get dressed when they have a client show up, refuses to go to the crime scene and sends John and a Skype connection in his stead.

And when the helicopter deposits him at Buckingham Palace where Sherlock still hasn’t bothered to get dressed, that’s just—well that’s life with Sherlock Holmes, isn’t it?

“Are you wearing any pants?” He hadn’t been that morning, that much was obvious, but surely…

“No.”

“Okay.”

When they meet each other’s eyes and Sherlock starts to laugh, John forgets to be angry. Sherlock’s laughter is infectious and, well, he’s said it before, but their lives are just absurd.

So absurd that someone in the royal family reads his blog and is a particular fan of the post he only just put up _yesterday_. He can’t help the look that he sends Sherlock, knowing that he’ll understand exactly what it means. _The Queen doesn’t read your blog, does she?_ It is so rare to one-up him.

Between his own efforts and Mycroft’s, they get Sherlock into some actual clothes so that they can discuss the case.

“Irene Adler,” Mycroft informs them as Sherlock sifts through the photos. “Professionally known as The Woman.”

“Professionally?” John asks, intrigued.

“There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘dominatrix,’” Mycroft answers John, but keeps his eyes on Sherlock.

“Dominatrix,” Sherlock echoes. He says it thoughtfully, almost like he’s unsure what it means. That would be something new.

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex.” Watching them talk like this is fascinating to John. Mycroft has the smuggest smile he’s ever seen.

“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” Sherlock says defensively.

Mycroft looks nearly disgusted. “Unfortunately, of that, I’m well aware.” And then his eyes flick to John, and John goes stiff. Just for a moment, rigidly aware of Mycroft’s gaze. It’s enough to be a tell, he’s sure. The conversation moves on, but he’s left with a vague sense of unease.

John waits until they’re in the cab to ask. “Does Mycroft know? About us?”

“What?” Sherlock shoots him a scornful look. “Oh, is that what you were doing, worrying about that? He probably does know. It’s generally best not to do something at all if you’d rather he not find out about it. But that’s not what he was referring to.”

“Oh.” John finally relaxes just a little. It’s not that he cares what Mycroft thinks, it’s just that… well, some things are meant to be private. And especially not alluded to in Buckingham Palace. “What was it, then?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, evidently debating internally whether or not to confide in John. “When I was a teenager, I’d neglect to lock my door.”

“That’s all? Catching you having a wank?”

Sherlock raises a brow, says nothing.

Oh? … Oh. “Oh,” John says. “Well, that’s…”

Sherlock shrugs defensively.

John changes the subject. “Mycroft doesn’t have anything like your problem, does he? Is omniscience a genetic abnormality?”

“No. He’s always been the normal child.”

John snorts. “Hard to imagine anyone calling Mycroft ‘normal’.”

“Only in comparison to his baby brother,” Sherlock says with a tight smile. “It all started with me.”

“Started with you?” John repeats, not quite catching on. “What—”

“The time travel problem. It _is_ genetic. Mycroft, for whatever reason, was spared. Perfectly normal as far as a Holmes is concerned. My mother had a mostly normal pregnancy with me, I’ve been told—I was only born a little early. No one is sure what may have happened in the seven years between Mycroft’s birth and my own, but I have my problem, obviously, and so did all of the others after me.”

John thinks he understands the implications. “The others didn’t live.”

“No, none of them made it. Presently-challenged from conception, it would seem. No one understood it then—it was before they knew about me, and before others came forward. She lost four children before my father died.”

“God, that’s…” John trails off, unsure of what to say.

“We never talked about it. I spent a lot of time with Mycroft and my older self as a child. It wasn’t until something you said, about Jennifer Wilson—”

John nods. “The pink lady. Her daughter.”

“Yes. I understood, then, that she must have been sad, quite often. To lose them, to have Mycroft leave for school, to lose Father, to have me and never be sure if I would be there or gone. She wasn’t used to being alone, and I think that she hated worrying about me and waiting for me, so she... detached.” Sherlock says it all so matter-of-factly, as though it isn’t something profoundly upsetting to realise about his own childhood.

John can understand, about the waiting. He’s spent most of his life waiting for Sherlock in some way or another. It’s a subject best left alone, he thinks. “And Mycroft, he’s the one who taught you about making deductions?”

“In a circular sort of way, yes. I taught him some things, planted the idea in his head when we were both very young. He taught me some things.”

“Right,” John says. He gives a soft laugh. “I know how the convoluted timeline mess goes. Okay, the smoking. How did you know?”

\---

When Sherlock asks John to punch him, John rejects the idea immediately. When Sherlock punches _him_ , something snaps. It’s a release of something that’s been pent up inside him for a very long time, and immediately that first conversation that he had with Mycroft springs to mind. Mycroft, telling him that he and Sherlock were adept at hurting each other. John hadn’t known the half of it then.

His fist hits Sherlock’s cheek, thrown right-handed to hit the left side, because that is where he wanted it, and John can’t even take out his anger, his frustration, on Sherlock without doing it by his terms. It hurts his hand, and it feels _perfect_.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, grinning. Because John’s done what he told him to, again. “That was—”

John cuts him off by tackling him to the ground. “That was what? An excellent job following orders?” He tries to pin Sherlock down, but Sherlock is quicker, rolls himself over and tries to get up. John pulls his right arm around Sherlock’s throat in a choke hold.

“Okay! I think we’re done now, John!” Sherlock sounds panicked. Good. He can still surprise him, then.

“You want to remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier! You never saw that; you were _gone_ then. But I was. I killed people.”

“You were a doctor!”

“I had bad days!”

“We all do!” Sherlock falls to the side, struggling, and John lets go of him. Sherlock pulls away immediately, clambers to his feet, and puts some distance between them.

John stays on the ground. He sits back and turns to look up at Sherlock. “Christ, I—”

“No,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. He waves his hand dismissively and tries to sound calm, but his breath comes out in pants. “It’s—it’s fine. More authentic; I do look like I’ve been in a scuffle now.”

It’s another thing they’re apparently not going to talk about.

“Come on, John. I said I’d have the photographs by the end of the day, remember?”

Sherlock sweeps away and John follows.

John’s never seen Sherlock flustered by a woman. Never seen him flustered by anyone, to be entirely truthful. God help him, he’s jealous of Irene Adler for it. This time he can’t suppress the memory of Mycroft’s words: _I’ll be sure to remind you of your impression of the score later_. John’s fairly certain that right now, Sherlock is leading on causing pain by a very wide margin.

\---

“Jesus. What are you doing?” John gasps. Sherlock is lying on the floor, eyes rolling back into his head.

“He’ll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse.” Irene smiles archly, seemingly pleased with her own cleverness, and heads out of the room.

John spots the syringe on the floor. “What have you given him?”

“He’ll be fine. I’ve used it on loads of my friends.” She’s dismissive, so dismissive, because she doesn’t _know_.

“He’s got a serious fucking condition!” John shouts. He’s momentarily torn between going after her and heeding her warning about choking. It hardly takes any debate, though—he kneels over Sherlock, slapping him on the cheek in hopes of bringing him out of it. The last thing anyone needs is for him to disappear now and come up somewhere else, unconscious and vulnerable. He said that the drugs grounded him, but...

“What do you mean?” The smile falls from her lips and Irene narrows her eyes. John spares a glance up at her when she speaks, and not for the first time since they met not fifteen minutes ago, there’s something about her that reminds him of Sherlock. She has outsmarted him—both of them—after all.

“I mean,” John grits out, “that if something happens to him, you will regret this.”

“No, about his condition. Tell me.” Irene fixes John with a hard stare, but when they both hear the police sirens in the distance, her eyes dart back towards the bathroom window.

John has no intention of explaining, because she is the last person in the world that John would trust with Sherlock’s secret. “Just go, just—Christ—get out of here now.” John turns his attention back to Sherlock, who isn’t completely out just yet; he is struggling, trying to pick himself up but his limbs don’t seem to be obeying his mind. “Stay with me,” John pleads, trying to keep his voice low. “Fuck. Just stay here, please.”

Irene seems to have made up her mind to leave. She’s perched on the windowsill in the bathroom, a rope in her hands. “You know, I was wrong about him. He _did_ know where to look.”

“What?” John barely looks up, just a flick of his eyes in her direction, before he turns his attention back to Sherlock.

“The keycode to my safe. It was my measurements.”

That startles John enough that he turns back to her completely. She has a smile on her face, an infuriatingly taunting smile, as she topples backwards out of the window to her escape.

By the time the Met get inside the flat, Sherlock is completely passed out. His breathing is ragged, like his body is still trying to fight the sedation, but he stays, mercifully, in the present. John recruits Lestrade to help get him back to Baker Street.

\---

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock’s still fuzzy, words slurred, but it doesn’t keep him from being a complete arse.

John rolls his eyes. “No reason at all.”

There’s still enough time for John to change his mind, ring up Karen and go on their date after all, and he’d really like to just to prove the point that he needn’t wait around for Sherlock when the man doesn’t care whether he does or not. Waiting. Always waiting.

He doesn’t, and it’s almost gratifying to hear his name called again a few hours later.

“John!” Sherlock’s not on the floor this time, at least. When John sticks his head in the door, he sees Sherlock sitting up, twisted up in the sheets and with his black shirt unbuttoned and pushed off his shoulders but wrapped around his arms and trapped at his wrists where the cuffs are still buttoned.

“You couldn’t just sleep through it,” John says wearily. He’s in his pyjamas now, but hadn’t really been planning to let himself go to sleep. Just in case.

“It was hot,” Sherlock whinges. “You put me to bed with all of my clothes on.”

“I thought it was more dignified.”

“Yes, I care so much about my modesty.” Sherlock makes an impatient noise and thrusts his arms out behind himself, a clear request. He pointedly does not ask for help.

John sighs. He crouches down behind Sherlock and unbuttons his shirt cuffs, then unwinds the twists in the fabric until he can help Sherlock pull it off. With the shirt gone, John can now see a series of livid bruises on Sherlock’s back.

John must have gasped. “What?” Sherlock asks.

“Your back. It looks pretty… beat up.” John pauses, thinking of how he tackled Sherlock earlier. “That wasn’t—?”

“From you? Hardly.” Sherlock frowns at the tangle of his sheets and legs, and kicks until he’s free. “Time travel. Wasn’t lucky enough to land in your back garden last night. Hit pavement instead.”

This morning seems like absolute ages ago, but John remembers now Sherlock’s reluctance to get up and his grimaces after he did. “Will you let me look at it now? You might have cracked something.”

“I think today proves that I didn’t. I’m sure it looks worse than it is. Most things do.” Sherlock shimmies out of his trousers, not nearly as graceful as he usually might be.

John pointedly does not watch while Sherlock bends over and fixes his sheets. “And you’re fine now?”

“I’m about to willingly go back to sleep. What does that tell you?” With some order restored, Sherlock slides back into his bed.

“That I need to keep some of whatever was in that syringe handy when I want some peace and quiet.”

The look Sherlock gives him is murderous. Worth it.

“Since you’re doing so much better, I think I’ll go sleep in my own bed instead of on the sofa.”

“I’ll hardly need you again,” Sherlock grumbles.

“Right,” John says fondly, and tucks the duvet around him.

\---

_29 October 2011_

Sherlock is gone. It’s strange how empty the flat feels without him, like all of the vibrancy that usually inhabits it—the sheer force that is Sherlock’s presence—has been sucked out and replaced with something dull and ordinary. Something John Watson. While they have so much in common, so much shared history, they are very different in this regard. It’s not a feeling that John had in Afghanistan, where he was alive and shining with purpose always, even without Sherlock, but here in London, John mostly feels dull. He’s nothing like Sherlock; it’s no wonder that he’s not interested in John the same way that John is interested in him. Sherlock needs someone equally showy, who doesn’t fall into his shadow, walk a step behind, quite so easily. Someone like—

_Ah!_

Speak of the devil, and she shall appear. Sherlock’s clothing is in a pile on the sitting room floor, and John hasn’t bothered to pick it up and move it to his room. Phone must be in his trouser pocket, and that... makes message twenty-six.

Yes, someone like Irene Adler, who knows all about getting Sherlock’s attention. John turns back to his book. It’s a detective story, something he picked up when he and Sherlock were loitering in a bookshop waiting for a glimpse of a suspect. John used to think the crimes in these things were ridiculously far-fetched, but now he’s dealt with crazier things in real life. It’s not holding his attention very well because he imagines that if the case were real, Sherlock would have solved it already in the first thirty pages. He gets a chapter-and-a-half farther in when it happens again.

_Ah!_

John grits his teeth. Twenty-seven.

Ten more pages.

_Ah!_

Twenty-eight. John would love desperately to read the messages. Sherlock would read them, if they were being sent to John. No respect for privacy. Sherlock would know if John reads them. Very high respect for his own privacy, just no one else’s. John refrains.

_Ah!_

Twenty-nine. And bloody buggering fuck, he can’t stay here and listen to that. He calls up Bill Murray—someone who knows John for _him_ and not being Sherlock’s sidekick—and asks him to meet at the pub. He doesn’t disappoint.

\---

_8 December 2011_

There is a chase. A near miss. The man has a knife and while Sherlock sneaks up on him from behind, John faces him head-on, fearless and challenging. The knife swipes, misses, and after a moment when Sherlock is certain that the tempo of his heart beat jumps from _andante_ to _allegrismo_ because the glint of the blade was close, _so_ close, he tackles the man to the ground and subdues him with a knee to the back.

Lestrade and Donovan are right behind, and they take the suspect away in cuffs, after extracting a promise from John that Sherlock will show up at New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning and explain all.

Before they’re even gone, Sherlock is on John, hands pushing past his coat—unzipped, it had been grabbed and hastily thrown on as they began to run—and under his jumper, then the thin cotton layer over his skin, checking for any damage. He had seen it: close, so close.

“Stop,” John hisses. “Your fingers are made of ice, fucking hell.” He bats Sherlock’s hands away. “I think I’d have noticed being stabbed; I’m not you.”

“That was one time! It was shallow, and if someone with my observational capacity can overlook—” The look that John gives him is much more effective at making him stop talking than words ever are. Sherlock withdraws his hands. There’s no blood. “You’re fine,” he announces.

“Yeah,” John says. He looks down at himself with a frown, stretching the knit fabric of his jumper out for a closer look. “But I think he ruined my second best jumper.” There is a slash that would have placed the blade alarmingly close to John’s left kidney, and the cables have already begun to unravel.

“Small mercies,” Sherlock retorts, and when he meets John’s eyes—wide, wild, his own probably are as well—they both start to giggle, almost giddy. Relief. Adrenaline. They both feel their most alive in moments like this, and Sherlock is in awe again to have found John. A miracle. Someone who understands.

“Saved by an offensively ugly jumper,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps they are good for something after all.”

“Shut up, you prat. People _love_ my ugly jumpers.” There’s no bite in John’s retort. They look to each other and the laughter starts again, so hard that John has to brace himself against the wall to stay upright and Sherlock feels absolutely breathless.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks as soon as he can manage to stop laughing. His chest is still shaking.

“You’re hungry?” John asks incredulously.

“Yes.” He’s not, but John is.

“You realise that will be two meals in one day, right?”

Sherlock lets his glare answer that question. “There are several good restaurants in this neighbourhood.”

“Any where the owners owe you a favor?” John gives his jumper another look of dismay before zipping up his coat to keep the cold from seeping in.

“Of course.” Sherlock grins. “Indian? The one I’m thinking of is better than our local. You’ll like it.”

“That’s fine, yeah.”

Sherlock decides to take them the back way, avoiding the main roads, because it will be faster and there are fewer people to bump into. He notices that John shoves his hands in his pockets as they walk. Must be getting cold now that they’re no longer giving chase and the pace has turned leisurely. It reminds Sherlock that his gloves are in his pocket—he could offer them to John, since he’s cold, but John would probably think that was strange. Sherlock slips them on his own hands instead.

“So that man we just stopped,” John says. “How did you know?”

“Well, there _was_ the knife.”

John laughs. “You know what I mean. Go on; show off.”

They’ve been walking in sync with each other. Sherlock’s usual stride is nothing like John’s, so that means there has been a subconscious decision to purposefully shorten his steps and fall into rhythm with John. It might bother him if John noticed, but he hasn’t, so Sherlock smiles just a little and lets it continue while he talks. “Well first there was the victim’s brother—everyone was so sure that it was him, because everyone is _stupid_ and ignores the obvious even when it’s staring them in the face. But the brother mentioned that there was another man who—”

_Ah!_

It’s loud enough to be heard through the thick, muffling fabric of Sherlock’s coat, and makes him fall silent in the middle of his sentence. John stops walking when he hears it, and Sherlock continues on for a few steps until he realises. He whirls back around. “Well?”

John is clenching his fists. “Another one?”

“Obviously. Though I hardly see why you care.”

“Right. Of course not.” John closes the distance between them calmly, and Sherlock assumes that’s the end of it. He hasn’t bothered to read the message; they’re all the same misguided attempts at catching his interest.

Sherlock is caught completely off-guard when John pulls him into the first alley they pass, presses him against the wall, and kisses him hard, all tongue and teeth. It’s unexpected because they’ve had a physical distance between them for months now—Sherlock stopped approaching John, and John has never been the one to initiate, not in the present, at least. Sherlock feels it in a rush, an ache of how much he’s missed this closeness.

John releases Sherlock’s mouth and pulls his scarf aside to bite his neck. It’s not the usual nipping, but an actual bite, _hard_ , and Sherlock can’t suppress the yelp that he makes at the feeling. Then there is John’s voice, low and gruff in his ear—there’s no space between them, with Sherlock’s back against the bricks and John is pressed as tightly against him as possible because it’s the only way he’s capable of reaching his mouth up that far. “What is she texting you about all the time?”

“Why do you _care_?” Sherlock shoves John away, expecting a fight. It doesn’t come, which surprises him, but it does make his original intention easier. He spins them around so that John is pressed against the wall instead.

Instead of answering, John pulls Sherlock in for another kiss, another sharp scrape of teeth.

 _Oh_. Sherlock can’t believe that he missed it, but it blooms in sudden clarity. He breaks their kiss. “You’re jealous.”

John gives a short bark of laughter. “Of you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not _me_.” He punctuates his denial with a kiss to John’s throat, which quickly turns to sucking and worrying at the skin with his teeth. When Sherlock pulls away there’s a mark, and he wraps his still-gloved hand around the back of John’s neck so that he can stroke his thumb over the bruise appreciatively. It’s impossible, of course, for him to actually feel the heat of it, the pounding of John’s pulse, pass through the black leather and into his fingers, but Sherlock likes to think that he can anyway. “No, you’re jealous of _her_.”

The noise that comes from John is a harsh rumble of denial, completely at odds with the way he’s pulling Sherlock into himself. “Of course not. You’re infuriating,” he says. “She can have you.”

When their mouths meet again, Sherlock feels a flush of triumph. This has been _very_ informative.

\---

_25 December 2011_

The party is Mrs. Hudson’s idea. She claims that Sherlock _loves_ Christmas parties, and that he very agreeably attended one that she threw two years ago with Mrs. Turner and her married ones next door. John believes that this must have been a Sherlock who time travelled from the very distant future—one in which he is a _very_ different man. Or possibly a hallucination. Because right now, he’s being the Sherlock everyone knows and wants to strangle, with his treatment of Jeanette (absolutely on purpose, because John heard him say her name not twenty-four full hours ago), casually _wrecking_ Greg with an off-handed comment, dismissing Harry’s latest attempt at sobriety, and—

John knows. He sees that look on Molly Hooper’s face and he knows that it mirrors the one that he used to wear when he was a teenager and thought it was possible that Sherlock Holmes might just love him back. John knows better. He’s long since given up on that, moved on to other things, but the pain feels fresh to watch this unfold in front of him.

The strange thing is that Sherlock… Sherlock seems to understand what he’s done, as well. And is genuinely sorry for it.

The entire moment is ruined when that fucking phone goes off again. “Fifty-seven?” John says, framing it as a question. He knows that’s how many he’s heard now, and he knows that Sherlock knows he’s been counting.

“Sorry, what?”

“Fifty-seven of those texts—the ones I’ve heard.”

“Thrilling that you’ve been counting,” Sherlock says, eyes hard on John for just a moment, a brief acknowledgement that makes John take a flustered sip of his drink, before Sherlock turns back to… whatever it is in this text that’s caught his attention. “Excuse me.”

John overhears Sherlock’s call to Mycroft. He doubts that he’ll find anything, but he starts checking the flat as soon as Sherlock’s gone, just in case.

“You have to stay with him, John. Keep him… grounded,” Mycroft had instructed. As though there’s anything John could do about that particular problem. If he could—well, John’s not really sure that he’d be selfless enough to stop Sherlock time travelling completely, erase all of the past that hasn’t happened yet, but it would be tempting.

Mycroft has been so worried about these danger nights, as he likes to call them, but nothing’s come of them. Not a trace of anything stronger than a nicotine patch or an occasional drink as long as John’s known him, actually—part of the reason he’d been so completely taken aback by that drugs bust on their first night at Baker Street. Sherlock explained it, once, that the cocaine did things to his mind, set sparks firing that prevented the stagnation and boredom that so often set off his problem. For whatever reason, it seems that he hasn’t been compelled to resort to that means since meeting John.

Still, he won’t leave Sherlock alone tonight, even when that means Jeanette gets fed up (they all do, Christ, even before they met in the present, when Sherlock was just a secret that his girlfriends always somehow knew John was keeping from them) and dumps him. It’s fitting—the first night he’d stayed up keeping an eye on Sherlock because of Irene had cost him a relationship as well.

\---

_31 December 2011_

It’s not that he cared for The Woman, exactly, but there were certain things about her that were intriguing. There was a good puzzle in the way that she impossible to read, unlike anyone he’d ever met before. She was obviously trying to bait him into some sort of game, but going about it in all the wrong ways. Perhaps if they’d met before he met John, or more precisely, before he began being pulled into John’s past—no one else could compare with that—he might have played along.

The thing that bothers Sherlock is that the phone was supposed to be her insurance. Why would she willingly give it over to him, him who she had already beaten so soundly, loath as he was to admit it, only to ensure that she met her death? It didn’t make sense. Irene Adler was not an idiot when it came to this trade of secrets; she knew that as long as the camera phone was in her possession, she was secure. Anyone who would wish to kill her would also wish to access the information stored on the phone, which couldn’t be done without her alive. So _why_ send it to him?

It feels like a setup. A move deliberately calculated to pique his interest, perhaps even to garner his sympathy, to make him believe that he’s the only person clever enough to deserve her trust. But why? What could possibly be the reason for that, what benefit could there be if the end result was simply her death?

Furthermore, what else could the note that he’d found Christmas night be referring to?

_You can be fooled. SH_

Too much of a coincidence for such a relevant note to pop up on _that_ night, on a day when he saw his future self, who tried and failed to tell him something important?

\---

_25 December, 2011 (Sherlock is 30 and 33)_

Sherlock has been waiting for this day for a very long time—known that it was coming, though unsure of exactly what point in his present he would be sent to this particular point in his past. When Sherlock finds himself sprawled naked on the sitting room floor of 221b, he at first assumes that it’s the usual situation—he’s travelled a few weeks or months into the past, maybe back to that day in July when John got so angry that he didn’t speak to him for hours, so that he can try and fail to warn himself not to leave traces of blood in the spare kettle, which John will just happen to use because Sherlock will have accidentally shorted out a wire in the usual one—until he sees that the flat has been decorated for Christmas. And not just any Christmas, but most certainly _that_ one, from their first year at Baker Street. Obvious, because that particular strand of coloured fairy lights had got tangled up the next year when John tried to help Mrs. Hudson decorate the window with them, and John ultimately chucked them into the bin with a string of curses. The ones that replaced them had entirely blue bulbs rather than multi-coloured, because that’s all that was left at the store and John was not tramping about London on Christmas day to find a certain sort of fairy lights, _thank you_ , not when he had a consulting detective (who didn’t care one bit about the colour of the lights) waiting for him at home for his Christmas present of being snogged senseless.

Sherlock is very fond of those blue lights.

So it is that particular Christmas, when he has a job to do, and a part to play in shaping the events to come. It’s strange to do this, sometimes, to just jump into his past and perform essential actions that he already knows the outcome of. Sherlock is also aware that he will make a mistake today. A very costly mistake, but perhaps, just this once, he’ll be able to fix it.

Looks like mid-afternoon, judging by the sun streaming in the windows, which means that John is out with Mrs. Hudson to fetch groceries for their little… festivity this evening, and that, if he remembers correctly, his younger self is sprawled on his bed debating whether or not he ought to pop out and buy John a present.

Yes. That’s exactly what he’s doing, face down on the bed. “Don’t mind me,” Sherlock tells himself. “I’m just here to borrow some clothes.”

His younger self rolls over onto his back to watch him. “Just don’t take the good purple shirt. I’m planning to wear it tonight.”

“I would know, wouldn’t I?” Sherlock considers putting together a disguise, but she’s too clever for that. He settles for one of the older suits and a plain, white shirt.

Sherlock can feel him watching him, studying him as he gets dressed. “2015?”

“No. 2014. September.”

“Your rate of aging is inconsistent.”

“Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?” There have been several occasions recently when he’s gone into the past for hours, only to return to the present and find that mere minutes have passed. There’s one occasion when he spends three days with John in 1995, while in 2014 he’s been gone for just five hours. He’s going into the future more often now, too. Sherlock hates that even more than travelling to the past. The future feels strange, like the atmosphere has a slightly different chemical concentration—not enough oxygen? Too much? He can never quite put his finger on the difference, and it’s likely all in his mind anyway—and there’s always a constricting sensation in his chest while he’s there.

“Are you here to tell me not to embarrass myself in front of our Christmas guests tonight?” Sherlock drawls contemptuously.

“No. Though don’t do that, if you can manage.” Not much chance of that happening. “And don’t”—He’s cut off. The sentence just won’t allow itself to be pushed from his lips. Well, he wasn’t too optimistic about being able to just tell himself everything and save the trouble of doing his part in this business, but it was worth a try.

“Don’t what?”

“Can’t say after all.”

His younger self growls with frustration. “I’d rather you not try if it’s just going to disappoint us both. I have more important things to think about than whatever horrible thing that’s going to happen that you can’t warn me about.”

“You do realise that you’re talking to yourself, don’t you?” Sherlock snipes back. “Now sorry, can’t stay. Things to do.” He pulls on a pair of shoes, straightens out his suit jacket, and strides out of the bedroom.

 _The_ present, the one from Irene Adler, is not here on the mantelpiece just yet.

\---

The snow starts while he’s waiting outside by Mrs. Hudson’s bins. Sherlock wishes that he had grabbed his coat (he’s wearing a spare of John’s instead; it’s not warm enough for this weather, and the fit is atrocious), but then his younger self wouldn’t have left the flat sixteen minutes ago without it, and the moment he’s been waiting for would not have happened. Apparently satisfied that she won’t be caught now that Sherlock is no longer home, Irene Adler has come around to the back of the building to let herself in. The package with the phone is in her coat pocket—he can see the bulge. It’s gone when she slips back out.

Sherlock follows her. Irene is not nearly as wary as someone who supposedly knows she’ll soon be murdered should be, nor is she aware that she’s not as safe from the attentions of Sherlock Holmes as she believes. Of course, who would expect there to be more than one of him?

Sometimes it’s tedious, knowing exactly what will happen. It all goes as expected. The Woman actually has the audacity to go Regent’s Park and watch until someone finds “her” body. Sherlock watches _her_ , sees that little smile of triumph—her face lit up by the screen of her phone while she types out a text—as the couple who stumble across the badly-beaten corpse startle and the woman begins to scream. It’s dark and he’s over-confident in his ability not to be seen while he creeps towards her, because he needs to see her more closely. He’s near enough to see the message she’s typing out, though he knows which one it is already: _Mantlepiece_.

Though he knows better, he can’t stop himself from making the mistake. After all, this is the past. Everything has already happened. How can you change the things that have already happened? She hits send, and for all that it’s been three years, nearly,  he can still hear in his mind the noise that came with the text— _Ah!_ —and he knows that right now in 221b he’s striding over to get her little present. And while he should be leaving right now, should be moving back into the shadows instead of looming just behind her, he can’t change a thing. Irene turns around.

She sees him.

Only briefly. It’s evening, dark, and she doesn’t get a good look at his face, but she knows the silhouette of his body just as well as he knows hers. There is enough there for her to recognize, even as he swiftly strides past her and pretends not to have noticed that she’s there at all, and she knows that right now he is not supposed to be here. She knows that he always has his mobile in his pocket, and that he hasn’t bothered to change her text alert noise, but that all was silent here when she sent her message. She _knows_ that right now he’s at home, holding her phone, making his deductions.

And now she knows enough to figure out his secret.

\---

_31 December, 2011_

Of all the things that Sherlock’s done since identifying Irene Adler’s body, it’s the sad violin composing that most drives John mad. It’s ridiculous, because it’s not as though John has any right to lay claim over Sherlock’s music, but the way he’s been playing is almost like he’s heartbroken. And John can’t stand to see Sherlock heartbroken for _anyone_ —has only seen something that he thinks was close to it once before, twenty years ago—but especially not her. There’s something about Irene Adler that got under his skin, something that he just couldn’t stand, and he hates to think that way about someone that Sherlock apparently cared rather deeply for. Some friend he is.

John decides to go out. Sherlock can’t stand to be comforted, and John can’t stand to listen to the music any longer without trying to make him stop.

When the car picks him up, it’s natural to assume that it’s Mycroft. He had told him once that he worried about Sherlock constantly, and now, after a week of daily (unanswered) calls to Sherlock’s phone, John is prepared to believe it.

But it’s not Mycroft who waits for him in the power station. It’s Irene Adler, very much alive.

John isn’t even interested in how she managed to fool Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. “Tell him you’re alive.”

“I can’t.” To John’s ears, she doesn’t even sound upset about it.

“Fine. I’ll tell him, and I still won’t help you.” God, he can’t believe that _this_ is the person Sherlock is grieving for. That she is—based on all evidence, past and current—the person Sherlock loves. He thought his relationship with Sherlock was unhealthy, but this just really takes it. He turns to leave.

“What do I say?” Irene asks, sounding genuinely confused.

John shrugs. “What do you normally say? You’ve texted him a _lot_.” He knows he sounds angry and possessive. He is.

“Just the usual stuff,” Irene says, and reads off some of the texts she’s sent Sherlock over the past several months.

“You... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?” John had suspected as much, though to have it confirmed still leaves him incredulous. Sherlock hates flirting.

“ _At_ him. He never replies.”

Now that part is new. “No, Sherlock always replies–to everything. He’s Mr. Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word.”

“Does that make me special?” She raises her eyebrow, teasing.

Christ, but John can just feel his face falling. He tries to rein it in. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Are you jealous?” Her lips twist into a knowing smile.

John grits his teeth. “We’re not a couple.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Who knows about Sherlock Holmes,” John thought he did, but this whole mess with Irene has thrown a lot of confusion on the matter, “but I’m not actually gay,” he reminds her.

“Aren’t you, though? Straight men don’t typically have sex with their male flatmates, do they?”

John makes a spluttering noise, and it takes a long moment before he can find his words. “How did you—?”

Irene gives him a look that is nothing short of scornful. “ _Please_. Remember what I do for a living. It’s my job to read sex on people the way it’s your _partner’s_ ”—She purses her lips and draws the word out, making it laden with meaning—”job to read crime. I’m quite good at it, too.”

He stares at her.

“And while you might not be gay—really the labels just trip things up, they’re not important—he is. Remember that the next time you take out one of your girlfriends and tell everyone you’re not a couple when you’ve been on your knees for him the night before.”

“You came back from the dead to tell me this?”

“No, I came back from the dead because I have something important to do and I need Sherlock’s help. And I won’t get it if he’s distracted by you.” _And not paying attention to me_ , is unspoken, but John understands that’s her point.

“And why should I help you?” John challenges.

Irene is no longer watching him, but typing out a text. “You won’t be. You’ll be helping yourself.” She turns the phone around. “There. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.’”

John scoffs. “Still planning to flirt with him?”

“Just a bit of fun,” she says with a grin. “You are _adorable_ when you’re jealous.”

_Ah!_

John whirls around in the direction of the sound, starts to follow it, but Irene shakes her head. “Don’t.”

“If he was here the whole time, that means he heard—”

“You’re welcome,” Irene says. “And now I suggest that you give him some time to think it over in that funny little head of his.”

\---

Sherlock can’t have had time to think it over, not with the American tied up then tossed out of the window and with Mrs. Hudson to look after. She’s tough, so much tougher than John would have given her credit for, and he can recognise now that there’s a certain understanding between her and Sherlock. They are inversions of each other—Mrs. Hudson, seeming so sweet, but stronger than anyone would expect (Sherlock knew, and John does now), and Sherlock, so strong that he can sometimes seem to have no capacity for feeling at all, except for those few times when he lets the depth of his caring show.

When they’ve seen Mrs. Hudson settled, they head upstairs. Sherlock seems to be ignoring that there’s anything to be discussed, and immediately picks up his violin after he’s shed his coat.

“Sherlock,” John says imploringly.

Sherlock frowns, checking the tuning on his violin. He ignores that John has spoken.

“ _Sherlock,_ ” John repeats, sharper this time.

“What?” Sherlock snaps.

John jerks his head in the direction of the sofa. “Sit? Please.” He settles on the far end himself and leaves plenty of room for Sherlock.

At first it seems that Sherlock is going to argue, but John keeps his eyes fixed on him, and he reluctantly comes and settles down next to him.

“You overheard what Irene said today,” John says quietly.

“Obviously.” Sherlock presses his lips in a tight line.

“And this”—John motions back and forth between them.—“this thing we’ve been doing, it’s not just about the sex for you, is it?”

“Did you sit me down to talk about our _feelings_ ,” Sherlock sneers. “Because I have more important things to do right now.” He starts to get up, but John puts a hand on his arm.

“Listen, just listen, okay?” John waits for Sherlock to nod and settle back down against the sofa cushions before continuing. “I’m stupid. I made a dumb decision when I was a teenager and here I am almost twenty years later and I haven’t tried to reevaluate it. You’ve just—you’ve been leaving me behind all my life. I’ve been waiting for you to come back since I was six years old, and I still do! You disappear now and even though I know that you’re spending time with me then, it’s still just me here, alone, waiting for you to come back. And I just couldn’t handle that. I decided that we were just friends and that we don’t have any sort of real relationship, so it’s not cheating if I have a girlfriend who’s normal, who’s never lost somewhere in time and is always there when I need her to be. It was a lie; I was just lying to myself. And the whole thing has been really, terribly confusing for me, you know? Sometimes you would sleep with me and I would believe that it was real, that you felt the same way that I did. Then sometimes you would just turn me down and tell me that I should find someone else. It—it messed with my head. You told me once that you were in a relationship with someone. It was one of your reasons for turning me down, you said. So when we met Irene, and when you started getting those texts all the time… I assumed it was her.”

Sherlock has listened intently, palms together in front of his face and eyes never leaving John, following his movements and letting his words wash over him without interruption for once. “It wasn’t,” Sherlock says slowly, while John pauses for breath. “Obviously it hasn’t happened yet for me, but I can tell you it’s not her. It will _never_ be Irene Adler.”

John gives a short laugh. “Good. That’s good, because I…” He trails off, thinking of the way that Sherlock has been hurting, all because of her. He’s been angry, so angry with her for what she’s done, when the past few months he’s been no better himself. “I didn’t realise until today that it was hurting you, because you never tell me, you never let on to how you feel. If I were you and could read people, I would have known, but I’m not. I’m an idiot, I’m ordinary, and I’m—” John bites his lip, trying to dam up the words that have come flooding out of him faster than he had ever intended. He knows what he was about to say, and he’s not sure if he’s ready to. “Fuck it,” he breathes out. “What I’m trying to say is that I love you, and I’m sorry.”

“John,” Sherlock says his name like a warning.

“No, Sherlock, I mean it. I absolutely mean it. You’ve known me for a year. I’ve known you for thirty-one—Christ, I’ve known you longer than you’ve even been alive, do you even realise that?”

“Oh,” Sherlock says with a small gasp. “Oh, you have, haven’t you?”

John nods. “I have. I’ve known you _so_ long, and I’ve been in love with you for the better part of my life. And it’s fine if you don’t feel the same way, but—”

“Shut up, shut _up_ ,” Sherlock interrupts. “You’re right, you are a complete idiot, because you don’t even realise. It’s you. Obviously, it’s _you_.”

“What?” John tilts his head in confusion. Because he thought—hoped—that he had the right idea, but this really wasn’t the reaction he was expecting.

Sherlock is full of the intensity that he gets when solving a case, but it’s all directed at John. It’s overwhelming. “You’ve spent how many years—twenty?—being jealous of someone, some future person who you thought I valued more than you, and all of this time you’ve been jealous of yourself. Because it’s _you_.”

“... Oh,” John says, dazed. “Oh, is it?”

“Clearly, because I can’t imagine anyone else. There is no one else. Do you not even _know_ how significant you are? Just given that I’ve known you for,” Sherlock pauses, gives a disbelieving, giddy, burst of laughter, “longer than I’ve been alive, you think there could possibly be someone else? Honestly, John, consider all of the facts.”

There’s no chance to reply, because Sherlock’s hands are at the sides of his face, pulling John towards him and into a soft, sure kiss. It reminds John of that very first time that they kissed in Sherlock’s present, before things became so complicated for both of them. Just a press of lips and the feeling of breathing the same air for a few moments while Sherlock’s thumbs stroke gently at his jaw. It’s nice, but it’s also… strange. Different from what typically passes between them.

It hits John that he doesn’t know how to handle this thing between them when it’s not built on desperation and unrequited longing. If this were something new with one of his girlfriends he would know what to expect, but it’s not new, and it’s _Sherlock_ , who never does things predictably. It seems wrong to just keep doing the same things they’ve always done. That was unhealthy. The ways that they treated each other, both of them, were painful, and—

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock murmurs, brushing his lips over John’s cheek.

“I’m not—”

“I can hear you. You’re panicking.”

John pulls away and looks at Sherlock, brow furrowed. “Of course I fucking am. I’ve just told you that I love you, you’ve… more or less said the same, in your own way, and now everything is different. And I don’t know what to do with different.”

“It’s really not _that_ different,” Sherlock says. “It’s the same thing we’ve been doing all along. The mechanics haven’t changed.”

“The whole thing has changed,” John insists. “It means something.”

Sherlock straightens up and brings a hand to his chin, stroking a fingertip over his own bottom lip as he thinks. He takes a deep sigh and begins to explain. “It’s always _meant_ something. Like a code, but with two of us holding different ciphers, neither of which were actually the one necessary to decrypt the message. And now we’ve drawn up the correct one, both of us are using the same cipher for once, and now the message can be mutually understood. But the actual code itself, that never changed at all.”

For Sherlock, it’s rather poetic, and John grins. “So the code is sex?”

Sherlock smirks. “The code is _us_ , and the message is that we should stop talking about metaphors, and also that we are wearing entirely too much clothing. With an additional note that if you suddenly start treating me like I’m fragile and want to talk about the state of our relationship all the time, I will be as infuriating as possible until you have no choice but to shut up and fuck me.”

“Oh,” John says, grinning wider. “Well, that sounds reasonable.”

“And that begins right this very moment, just so you’re aware.”

“In that case”—John pulls Sherlock close again and kisses him, hard and fast, so that he’s panting when he releases him again—”you’d better go to your bedroom now or I’ll have you right here.”

“That’s hardly a threat,” Sherlock says, with an unimpressed raise of his brow. John meets his gaze and bites his lip, trying to think as loudly as possible about all the things he plans to do. Sherlock becomes instantly compliant.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any formatting errors—posting from my phone on the way to 221b Con! Will fix them, if they exist, when I'm back home.
> 
> Warnings: major character death (but...).

_1 January 2012_

It is different.

Big Ben chimes the hour—midnight—whilst they’re making the sort of slow progress that only occurs when two people are trying to hurry but also refuse to take their hands off each other or stop kissing, towards Sherlock’s bedroom. John’s going backwards, expecting Sherlock to guide them but finding himself bumping into quite a lot of furniture and lab equipment instead because Sherlock’s too busy shoving John’s cardigan down his arms and tackling the buttons on his shirt to care.

John pulls his mouth away from Sherlock’s, but his hands are still busy trying to pull Sherlock’s shirt tails free from his trousers—no easy feat considering how tight the shirt and the trousers both are, and the fact that neither of them have taken the time to undo their belts. “Are you even attempting to steer? I know you don’t care what happens to your own self, but some of us like to remain mostly unbruised.”

“I could stop and we could both walk calmly,” Sherlock says in his most reasonable tone. “But somehow I don’t think that’s really what you want.”

“No. No, it’s really not.” John lets out a huff of laughter that’s more breath than sound. “Christ. I want _you_.”

“You’ve got me.” Sherlock kisses him again and sets his hands on John’s hips to make a slightly more conscientious effort to get them both to his bed without harm. “There, bed,” Sherlock announces unnecessarily, as the backs of John’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and he falls backwards, pulling them both down.

John huffs as Sherlock’s weight settles onto him. “Normally I think I’d like it if you fell on top of me on a bed, but you haven’t even taken off any of your clothes yet.”

“What about you?” Sherlock straddles John’s hips, leaning back and frowning at John’s still mostly-buttoned shirt as though deeply offended by it.

“Fairly sure my cardigan’s on the kitchen floor, so I’m more undressed than you, at least.” John pushes ineffectually at Sherlock’s jacket, not that he entirely expects to be able to just slip it off. “C’mon. You take care of your clothes; I’ll do mine. It’ll be faster.”

Sherlock’s hands are back working on John’s shirt buttons, steady and sure. “But not as fun.”

“Hedonist,” John says fondly. Sherlock is too far away to kiss, so John settles for rucking up his shirt and sliding his hands over the exposed skin there before tugging at Sherlock’s belt buckle impatiently.

“John.” Sherlock says his name with a gravity that makes John stop and listen. “You realise that nearly every time we’ve slept together it’s been some quick, desperate fumble? I intend to take my time now that I can.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” John hisses, suddenly overwhelmed. It’s true—even when he was younger it was always about needing, wanting, now. “Fuck, yes. Okay. That sounds perfect.”

Sherlock sits up a bit and takes off his jacket, flinging it toward the corner of the room carelessly. He hitches his hips forward—John groans as Sherlock’s arse slides over his cock, and _Christ_ he is hard and not at all used to trying to make this thing between them last—so that he’s sitting close enough for both of them to reach each other’s shirt buttons. Sherlock makes quick work of John’s shirt and bends down to kiss him until John catches up and pushes the fabric off Sherlock’s shoulders.

“You could have said,” John says, mouth brushing over Sherlock’s collarbone. His hands move down to Sherlock’s belt buckle again, and he doesn’t protest this time when John begins to undo it. “Before. That you wanted to take things slower, I mean.”

“I didn’t know that, did I?” Sherlock sits up again, dragging a noise of protest from John at having his progress interrupted once more. He’s silenced by Sherlock’s hands finding their way to John’s belt in turn. “I was taking what I thought I could get. Always have, with you, even when you were—when it was wrong.”

“It was never wrong. Confusing, maybe. Not wrong.”

“You were so young, John. And I couldn’t say no.” Sherlock actually sounds very guilty about it.

John sighs. He’s thought about this a lot, had plenty of time to consider it. “It fucked with my head, I’m not going to lie. But I’m glad you didn’t say no. I’m glad we have this.”

Sherlock frowns.

“What?”

“I was wrong; I’m not patient enough to move this slowly. I need your clothes off. Now.”

John lets out a relieved laugh. “Right. Delayed gratification—really not your thing.”

“Well, in the end it does seem so pointless to deny oneself.” Sherlock says it seriously, almost pompously, but there’s a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Come on, up,” Sherlock adds, after he pushes himself off John and stands to shimmy out of his trousers.

“So bossy.” John still has his shoes on, and he toes out of them awkwardly while his trousers pool around his ankles.

“And all the evidence points to you rather liking it.” Sherlock is already naked whilst John’s only just managed to divest himself of his trousers, and he fists his hand in the fabric of John’s undershirt to pull him close. He pulls the shirt off over John’s head as John tries to push down his pants, resulting in grumbling when each of them want their own way with John’s arms, and when John is finally naked, too, Sherlock pushes him down onto the bed and slides on top of him so that their hips are aligned and Sherlock’s face lies alongside John’s own. It leaves John looking over the crest of Sherlock’s shoulder at the long, pale stretch of his limbs.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John says with awe, then groans as Sherlock twists his hips just a little, enough for the friction of skin against skin to make him shiver with pleasure. “Always wanted to tell you that—just fucking gorgeous. Kind of unfair, really. I never stood a chance.”

Sherlock lets out a little rumble of laughter against John’s jaw, where his mouth is busy kissing and tonguing a line down to his neck.

“I mean it. It’s always been—ah,” John’s words come to an abrupt halt because Sherlock has pushed himself up with one hand and used the other to stroke down John’s chest then grasp his cock. “God. Are you trying to shut me up?”

“It’s possible.”

“There are better ways to go about it. Such as you learning to appreciate a compliment.” John slides his fingers along the nape of Sherlock’s neck and into his hair, pulling him back down and into a kiss. It’s slow, a luxurious slide of tongues that leaves John feeling breathless—aided by the equally slow and steady push and pull of Sherlock’s hand on him.

“I prefer my method, though,” Sherlock says as they pull apart, John gasping beneath him. His lips twitch up in a playful smile—John thinks that no matter how long he knows Sherlock, or how many times he sees that smile, just one corner tugged up, hardly ever lasting more than a few heartbeats of time, he’ll never get tired of being the one who coaxes it out of him—and Sherlock slips down between John’s thighs to pull the head of his cock into his mouth.

John sucks in a deep breath and fists his hands in the sheets. “Christ. Okay—fuck. I like your way too.”

Not for the first time, John feels overwhelmed to be the focus of the entirety of Sherlock’s attention. He catches his bottom lip in his teeth and breathes hard as he watches Sherlock’s lips stretched out, moving over his length in slow, smooth strokes while his tongue works in concert. Sherlock’s face becomes even sharper when his cheeks hollow out in suction and the sight of it is almost as breathtaking as the feeling, especially when Sherlock raises his eyes to meet John’s. They’re heavy-lidded, pupils blown wide, and the sensation that accompanies the reminder that Sherlock wants _him_ , wants all of him, all of it, makes it suddenly too intense. “God,” John moans. “Just— _god_.” This, for whatever reason, they’ve never indulged in often, and it’s been long enough for John to forget that Sherlock is very, _very_ good at it. Which reminds him of something else he hasn’t done with Sherlock in an agonizingly long time.

John can feel himself getting close, and he digs his fingers into Sherlock’s shoulders in warning.

Sherlock takes his mouth off of John and asks, voice husky, “Do you want to come like this?”

It takes John a moment of consideration, but he shakes his head no and beckons Sherlock upwards with a jerk of his chin. Sherlock complies, lying on top of John again and nuzzling his way up John’s neck and into a kiss. He begins to roll his hips with the motion of his tongue in John’s mouth, brushing his own prick against John’s spit-slick one, and it feels just shy of too much. “Fuck,” John hisses through his teeth, and Sherlock stills.

“You know, your vocabulary is never exactly expansive, but it really does suffer when you—”

John cuts him off with another kiss; this one ends with a nip to Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Don’t finish that sentence—it’s in your best interest.” Another kiss, this one longer. “Besides, I don’t remember you ever being entirely coherent when I had your cock in my mouth.”

Sherlock smiles against John’s lips. “You’ve never—”

“Haven’t I?” John raises a brow, not that he really thinks Sherlock can see with their faces pressed so close.

“Mm. Something to look forward to, then.” Sherlock pushes his hips again, and John finds himself sliding his legs around Sherlock’s waist and tilting up so that Sherlock’s lazy thrusts send his prick sliding along the cleft of John’s arse.

“ _Yes_ ,” John breathes, whether in answer to Sherlock’s statement or to their movements against each other unclear even to himself. They rock against each other like that, slowly, until John realizes that Sherlock’s face is buried against the skin of his neck and that his breath is coming in harsher and harsher pants. Feeling Sherlock begin to come undone makes up John’s mind for him. “I want you to fuck me.”

Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath. “You... don’t do that often, do you?”

It’s been a very long time. “No, I don’t. But right now it’s really what I want.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says. He pulls away from John and sits back on his heels, looking down on him for a moment as though considering the best approach for the matter. “On your knees?” he asks, and when John nods silently, Sherlock tugs at his arm until he sits up, then pulls John into a rough kiss. John can feel, in the brush of Sherlock’s tongue and the sharp drag of Sherlock’s teeth, how much Sherlock wants him. When they part, Sherlock’s mouth brushes over his ear with a brusque whisper: “Over.”

John complies, settling on his belly with his legs stretched out, thighs parted, and his head resting on his arms where they are folded in front of him. With his face down, he can feel Sherlock’s weight leaving the bed and hear him rustling in his drawers, rather than see. Something about not watching, just waiting patiently, does more to stoke the anticipation and arousal that’s been curling inside him since he made up his mind to ask for this. By the time that Sherlock settles back on the bed with the lube—carelessly tossed aside somewhere the last time they were together, it seems—John is practically ready to beg him to get on with it.

It feels like a torturously slow forever while Sherlock works his fingers inside, one by one, until he reaches three and John is just writhing beneath him, thrusting back into the burning, too-good stretch. He’s had trouble forming words, making sounds beyond wanton whimpers, since the first breach, and Sherlock has been uncharacteristically quiet as well, mostly speaking to him through the gentling touch of his free hand down John’s side and the brush of his lips over John’s back. “God,” John gasps when he finally finds his voice. “God, I haven’t done this since I was in my fucking twenties.”

“With me?” Sherlock mouths against the small of John’s back as he twists his fingers.

John lets out a breathless moan, low in his throat, before he answers. “Yes, with you. Only ever with you.” He can feel Sherlock smile against his skin.

“That was just months ago for me—just before the final time you saw me in the past, I believe. It was...” Sherlock pauses, trying to find a word to describe it, but John knows exactly what he means.

“Yeah, it was. I”—John breaks off mid-sentence to bite his lip and take a deep breath because Sherlock, brilliant man, hasn’t stopped moving inside him—“I thought I was losing you.”

“I didn’t think I’d be able to keep you.”

It is the closest that Sherlock has ever come to letting him in, letting John really know how he’s felt these past eight months—this past eternity, since John was eighteen?—and it _means_ something, to hear it. John would like to to respond with equal weight, to say _Well, here I am,_ or _You’ve got me, too_ , or possibly even _Sherlock Holmes, you have no idea the things that I would do to keep you, to keep you with me always_ , but in this moment, saying those things is too much, so he settles for what he can manage instead: “Now, please.”

John thinks Sherlock understands what he meant anyway. It feels that way, at least, when Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist and urges him up onto his knees, hips tilted up and thighs splayed wide, then kisses the arch of John’s spine while he replaces his fingers with the blunt pressure of his cock sliding home.

“Okay?” Sherlock asks. His mouth is on John’s shoulders now, breaths gusting over John’s skin and lips trembling ever-so-slightly so that John can feel the effort it takes for Sherlock to keep his movements slow. John’s bottom lip is pulled between his teeth and he has yet to make a sound in the face of the intense push and pull of pleasure inside him in time with the minute rolling of Sherlock’s hips.

“ _Yes_ ,” John gasps. “ _Sherlock_ , yes, just—” He cuts off with a wordless cry because Sherlock draws himself back and sinks forward more sharply. When John speaks again, his voice is shaking. “That, yes.”

Those are the last words that John manages, because Sherlock keeps fucking him, slow and hard, and John can only answer him by canting his hips, by arching his spine when he lowers his head to rest on his forearms and braces himself against them, and by coming undone, shaking, crying out, when Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s prick and gives it five strong strokes to make him come. Sherlock follows just after as John clenches around him.

They lie side by side, quiet for several long moments until John breaks the silence. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” he says with a breathless laugh.

“I know,” Sherlock responds, and John can hear the smile in his words. “Incredible.”

“Mmhmm,” John agrees, and groans as he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Stay.” Sherlock slings an arm around John and pulls him back down and close.

“Sherlock, I’m just going to clean up.” John’s skin is a sticky mess. For that matter, so are the sheets.

Sherlock grumbles. “I suppose it’s necessary”—John pointedly motions towards himself, which Sherlock dismisses with a wave of his hand—“but plan to come back here. If I’m going to sleep, I want you to be here when I wake up.”

\---

John is curled around him, knees tucked in tight against Sherlock’s own, an arm slung across his ribs, and his mouth pressed, open, against the sloping skin of Sherlock’s back just between his shoulder blades. It should be uncomfortable—he’s almost certain that John is _drooling_ on him, just a little but a little is still too much—and Sherlock has never liked anyone to touch him for very long. Even with John, before, he tended to roll away, feeling suffocated by the weight of his own wanting. But this—something about this moment is perfect.

_Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave._

\---

_22 June 1991 (Sherlock is 10 and 30)_

The universe has an absurd sense of humour when it comes to time travel. If he had to leave the present, Sherlock would have at least liked to have spent time with John. Each visit feels like putting together a piece of the puzzle, finally uncovering the full picture of their shared history. Instead, he’s in London with himself, aged ten, who is visiting from three weeks from now. Sherlock only has to look at his younger self for a moment, note the absence of certain identifying marks and take into account his age, to recall which visit this happens to be. It’s not one of the easy ones, and all that he can do is live it.

It is early morning and the shops aren’t open yet, which is very convenient when it comes to breaking into one to steal clothing. They’re shivering there together, naked. At ten he is painfully thin, having recently had a growth spurt that the rest of him hasn’t caught up with. It will be years before his boredom has him turning towards boxing and Judo—he’s all skin and bones until he does. Sherlock pulls his younger self close to keep their bodies warm while they make a plan.

“There are two options. The easy way involves me taking care of everything, and the more difficult one involves you doing it yourself.”

“It would be good practice.”

“You need the practice.” Sherlock needn’t elaborate—at this age he’s already been stranded, has had to fend for himself, more than once. He knows.

Thirty minutes later, they both have clothes, terribly mismatched and not entirely well-fitting, but clothes nonetheless. They are also sprinting breathlessly down a side street because younger Sherlock was much less adept at not tripping the alarm than he was at getting the lock open.

“Definitely need more practice,” Sherlock says with a laugh, leaning against a wall when they’re far enough away from the scene of the crime for comfort.

His younger self slides down into a sitting position on the ground next to him, panting. “Mostly okay, though?”

“We weren’t caught, were we?” Sherlock grins down at himself and finds an answering crooked smile mirrored back at him.

“Nope. Try something else next?”

Sherlock considers the possibilities. “Pickpocketing. Always comes in handy.”

“Yes! I tried yesterday, but Mycroft noticed before I lifted his wallet all the way.”

They take four wallets in all—Sherlock grabs the first one off a man as they pass each other at the entrance to Sainsbury’s and sends his younger self running after the man with it to return, which nets them a £10 reward that the younger Sherlock stuffs in his trouser pocket. The next two are lifted by his younger self while Sherlock distracts the mark, then also returned. The final wallet, he takes unassisted. Those last three were chosen with a little more care, and Sherlock has no qualms about keeping the cash and dropping the wallets in the post to make their way back to the owners. It means that they have a rather nice lunch, and after it, they decide to try locks again, which is how Sherlock ends up in an alley in Chinatown—remarkably close to Soo Lin Yao’s flat, Sherlock notes, and has a pang of longing for John to be here too—boosting his younger self up onto a fire escape because he wants to try his hand at windows and can’t be satisfied with those at ground level.

“Is there a trick to it that I’ve missed?” he calls down.

“Nothing that I haven’t shown you. It really is simple; try it again.”

“I _am_ trying!” Sherlock stamps his foot and the fire escape rattles dangerously.

“Careful! Unless you’re deliberately trying to draw more attention to us for the thrill of it; then, by all means, continue.”

He’s not listening; his brow is furrowed in a mix of concentration and frustration, and he hasn’t got the patience to keep trying when he’s hitting the same problem over and over again. “Maybe this other one will be more loose,” he says, mostly to himself, and pulls himself up onto the railing to lean over towards a second window that can’t quite be reached with his feet on a more stable surface. As an adult, it would be an easy thing to lean over and work at the window’s lock. At ten, it’s just beyond reach, and when his hand on the windowsill isn’t enough to stabilise him as he loses his foothold, he goes tumbling down towards the ground.

Sherlock knows that he’s fine, because he’s here now, and he remembers. It doesn’t stop the panic, especially when he sees the blood. He’s by his younger self’s side in an instant, scooping him up and checking him over. There’s a cut from something he landed on—brick, pavement, glass, his own sharp teeth biting through flesh, possibly—at the edge of his lip, bleeding freely, and another on his head, not to mention various scrapes on his hands and knees sustained as he tried to brace himself against the impact. No bones are broken; the blood and the tears make it look worse than it is.

“You’re fine,” Sherlock tells himself, more brusque than reassuring. “No lasting damage.”

“But it _hurts_.”

“Well. Perhaps next time you’ll be more careful.” He won’t. Two weeks from now he’ll take another fall, this time trying to retrieve some laboratory equipment from the top shelf of the library, where it was hidden after being confiscated by Mummy for some offense he hardly remembers now.

With a lack of better options, Sherlock uses his tee shirt to help staunch the flow of blood and takes him to the main road to flag down a cab. When Sherlock gives the driver the address, the man swivels around to get a better look at young Sherlock—still crying—and looks skeptical. “Don’t you think you ought to take the lad to a hospital?”

“No, I’m taking him to his mother, which is the much more sensible option in this case. Now do you want the fare or not?”

The drive to the Holmes estate is long and expensive enough that the cabbie accepts without another word. It’s not Mummy who’s waiting for them when they arrive, though. It’s Mycroft, pacing the hallway and pouncing on them the moment they step in the door.

“Thank God. Did you take him off somewhere without letting me know?” Mycroft demands, completely unintimidated by the presence of the older Sherlock along with the little brother he was expecting. At seventeen, he’s hardly different from the man he will be at thirty-eight, already grown too soon and full of overbearing _concern_.

“Hardly. Time travel,” Sherlock answers him. “We landed in London together, had a bit of an accident.”

“So I see,” Mycroft says, taking in the blood that’s on both of them now, though the bleeding has long since stopped. “This is not your present, then?” he asks, turning to the younger.

“No,” Sherlock answers angrily. He had still been crying as the cab pulled up to the house, but the awareness that he would soon see his brother made him dry his face and take on a defiant air—his default state for interactions with Mycroft these days. “That me is somewhere else, too—back a year or something like that. I’m always somewhere else, and it’s not _fair_.” The last word becomes a shout, and he runs off up the stairs to his room.

Mycroft watches his departing brother, before turning to the one who remains. “Tell me, do you ever grow out of being needlessly self-destructive?”

“You never grow out of being _you_ , so why should I bother to change?” Sherlock sneers.

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft snaps. “I would at least think you’d be responsible enough to take care of your own self. That’s the only person you give a damn about. With your knowledge, you could have prevented it from happening.”

“That’s what you never understand, Mycroft! None of this is up to me; it’s already happened! You think I don’t want to save myself the pain sometimes? Save father, save—” Sherlock cuts himself off, or, rather, is cut off, because _that_ hasn’t happened yet. “Getting hurt, making mistakes—that’s how I learn to take care of myself.”

Mycroft’s mouth works into a tight line as he listens and considers. He’s young enough, now, to still be open with Sherlock; when his resolve breaks, he asks,“Why can’t you let me take care of you instead?”

“Because you can’t come with me.” Sherlock gives him a grim smile. “Listen, I don’t think I’ll be here much longer, nor will the other Sherlock. Take care of those cuts for him? Don’t want to make this worse than it already is.” Sherlock brings a finger up and rubs it over the scar, a still-visible relic of today, on his lower lip.

\---

_1 January 2012_

When John wakes up alone in Sherlock’s bed, he has a moment of panic, because this is _not_ where he’s supposed to be; he’s not even on the correct side of the bed, closest to the door, and what if something had happened in the night—where is Sherlock? His hand flies out to the spot next to him; the sheets are cold and empty, like he expected, but his brain can’t be rational about the fact that of course Sherlock would be awake and gone already, and his heart starts hammering harder. To combat it—he’s well-practiced with this feeling now, thanks to those first months after Afghanistan—he takes several long, deep breaths and reminds himself that he really doesn’t have to worry about Sherlock. Usually John’s shut away in his own bedroom upstairs and Sherlock manages just fine without him. It’s fine. Fine.

“Get ahold of yourself, Watson,” he says aloud into the empty room, voice gruff with sleep and the effort of trying to calm himself. John rolls over, turning towards the bedside table, but of course Sherlock doesn’t keep anything as mundane as a clock in his room. What does _he_ care about the time? John will have to bring his down if—well, that’s getting ahead of himself. The sunlight coming in through the window tells him that it’s late enough that he ought to be up, anyway.

John’s dressing gown is hanging in the bathroom, and he shrugs it on before heading to the kitchen, stopping a moment to pick up his cardigan from the floor along the way. Seeing it lying there puts him in a vastly improved mood, with a smile that lasts until he reaches the kettle. There’s a note taped to it:

_At Bart’s. Took your phone—forgot to charge mine. Keep me company when you wake up, if you like. SH_

Oh, the bastard. It’s one thing to have disappeared unwillingly, but—

\---

“He’s not here.”

John stops short as he opens the door to the morgue. “What—?”

“Sherlock,” Molly clarifies. She’s at the table closest to the entrance with a body spread out, mid-autopsy, before her. “I’m sorry—didn’t mean to startle you, but I saw you coming in. You _are_ looking for him, right?”

“I am,” John says with a frown while looking around the room in confusion. “Sorry—it’s just that he left a note saying he’d be here.”

“Well he was, at one point...” Molly pauses and wrinkles her nose thoughtfully. “I’ll just put this on hold for a moment, yeah? It’s not that you don’t get used to the”—She waves her glove- and gore-covered hands around to indicate the procedure in process—“well, you know. You went to school here, right? But it doesn’t make for the most pleasant of conversations to have a scalpel in your hand!” She ends with an overly-cheerful, slightly nervous laugh.

“I’m—” John might just be gaping openly while she talks. “Sorry, you said he was here at some point?”

Molly sets her equipment aside and covers the body, talking as she does. “Right! He came in a few hours ago, wanted to use the lab, the usual. Got kind of interested in this one, though, so I let him have a look because he _is_ very good at the unexplained causes of death, thinks this one might have something to do with—sorry, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“And where is he now?”

“He left,” Molly says matter-of-factly. She peels off her gloves and bins them.

John shrugs and raises an eyebrow. _And?_

“He _left_ ,” Molly says conspiratorially. “I know about his problem, though I don’t think he realised I knew, until today? He visits me, not often, just a few times now—from the future, you know—anyway, he makes a really lovely assistant for post-mortems. Hardly even complains.”

“Sorry—” John surely cannot be hearing this correctly. “He acts as your assistant?”

“Well... mostly he lets me do the poking and cutting and just reaches my conclusions before I do. His version of assisting.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes! He’s even told me a few things about the future, once or twice depending on when he comes from. He’s a bit nicer when he’s older, isn’t he? Anyway, he says some very lovely things about it.”

“Lucky you,” John grumbles. He feels, ridiculously, a little jealous. “He never tells me anything.”

“Oh, well, I think he just likes to be reassuring sometimes. He told me once—don’t tell him I said—that he doesn’t like to make people feel like he’s taking too many of their choices away from them.”

Now _that_ John actually has heard before. “So... how long has he been gone?”

“Thirty minutes, maybe? I’d hardly done much work between him leaving and you arriving. His clothes are over there, by the way”—Molly motions towards a counter where she’s piled them out of danger of coming into contact with any strange fluids—“and so are the phones. I was worried they might have cracked, hitting the ground like they did when he was just suddenly gone, but they seem to be fine.”

“Phones?” John has Sherlock’s—charged, now—and Sherlock had his, so why would there be two?

“He took an x-ray of one of them—the camera phone. Though why anyone would x-ray a phone...” Molly trails off with a shrug.

Of course. “Oh, for God’s sake,” John sighs.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just Sherlock trying to make sure he gets maimed or killed over a stupid bloody phone.” Molly makes a noise of confusion, but John doesn’t bother to clarify, just goes to the pile and pulls out Irene’s phone and slips it into his pocket. “Listen, I’ll take this with me for safekeeping. You keep the rest; he ought to be back any time now—never can be sure how long he’ll be gone. You can let him know I got tired of waiting.” He can hear Molly’s stammered “good-bye” as he leaves and has a pang of guilt for being short with her.

John takes the tube from Barbican to Baker Street out of habit, but he’s too frustrated—angry? He might as well own up to it; he’s angry—to go right back to the flat. He ends up in Waitrose doing the shopping, a fact that angers him further when he realises that he subconsciously chose to go there because they carry Sherlock’s favorite biscuits.

Sherlock is pacing in the sitting room when John gets home. “Do you still have the phone?” he asks, before John’s hardly had the chance to step over the threshold.

“Yes, I have the fucking phone,” John bites out. “And the shopping, not that I expect you to give a rat’s arse about that.” The bags hit the table with more force than is possibly good for the contents, which John begins to put away.

Sherlock leans against the doorframe, very still, and watches. “You’re angry.”

“And you’re a genius.”

“Is it about the phone? Because you know it’s nothing to do with her personally, just the—”

“It’s not the phone. I don’t know what she has on there that’s worth faking her death, or why you’d just carry the damned thing around, knowing that people are after it”—John pauses, clenches his fist, because while the Americans might not be coming after it again anytime soon, who knows what other dangerous people want it too, or what they’d do to get it?—“but I _really_ don’t care that much.”

“What _are_ you angry about, then?”

Sherlock doesn’t ask in his typical fashion (to imply that the whole concept of anger is somehow beneath him), so John doesn’t answer in his (to ignore Sherlock or answer with something sarcastic). John hears the genuine confusion in Sherlock’s voice and sighs. “I’m not angry, I’m...” He searches for the word for a moment. “I don’t know. I’m hurt.”

Sherlock only looks more confused, so John explains.

“You said you wanted me to be there when you woke up. Well I wanted the same thing, and it’s never happened. You’re always gone, and I understand—”

“John—”

John holds up a hand. “No, you’re going to let me finish.” He waits until Sherlock gives a barely perceptible nod of assent. “I understand that you mostly can’t help leaving; I know you don’t control it. But this time you did. You can’t just... leave a note and expect it to be okay that you _decided_ to just go. And you went without me, to do something that could have been dangerous—we don’t know who else wants access to Irene’s information, or what they’re willing to do.”

“The phone was perfectly safe, it’s not—” Sherlock stops short, frowns, and John can see him re-evaluating what to say. “Leaving... it wasn’t the way you’re thinking. I time travelled whilst we were both sleeping—surprised it didn’t wake you, actually, because you were wrapped around me and it was... good. When I came back you were still sleeping, and I just stood there and watched you and decided that I shouldn’t bother you.”

“Bother me? By coming back to bed?”

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“If something like that happens again? You bother me,” John reaches out, pulls Sherlock close. “Always bother me, because it’s not bothering at all.”

“I’ll remind you of that every time that you complain.” Sherlock folds against John and his face unerringly finds its way into the crook of John’s neck where his lips settle against the skin.

“Please do.”

\---

_2 February 2012_

“I would have you right here across this desk until you begged for mercy. Twice.”

John can feel his blood pressure rising. Evidently, the fact that he’s recalling every method he knows to slowly and deliberately kill a man is written across his face, because Irene flicks her gaze over, then smirks at him. “Oh, someone is jealous,” she purrs. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing to do with sex—it’s power, making Sherlock Holmes fall to his knees. He’d look lovely bent across this desk, don’t you think?” Irene raises an eyebrow, smiles knowingly. “Or do you know?”

Sherlock doesn’t need John’s help, not with her. “I’ve never begged for mercy in my life,” he sneers.

“Twice.”

To hold himself back from sliding across the desk and forcing Irene to keep her distance, John finally gives the flight search his concentration. “Uh, yeah, you’re right. Flight double oh seven.”

The phrase sends Sherlock retreating into his mind; honestly, it hasn’t been that long since they watched Casino Royale while spooned uncomfortably but satisfyingly on the sofa, so he really ought not have so much trouble connecting 007 to Bond. John knows he won’t listen when he’s like this, so he leaves Sherlock to puzzle it out for himself, pulls Irene aside, and says, “I’m not ungrateful to you—”

“I told you that my motives were not entirely altruistic. I just got what I wanted, congratulations to you for the same.”

“And is that all you want from him?”

“Well... for now. There is that matter of dinner, but,” Irene sighs dramatically, “I’ve come to accept that he’s otherwise occupied.”

“Good.”

“And you can always reach me for advice about how to handle him if he’s ever too much for you.”

John lets out a short bark of laughter, but his voice is all steel. “You’re likely to get that dinner first.”

Because he hadn’t exactly expected to find Irene Adler sleeping in Sherlock’s bed— _their_ bed—that morning, John had made plans for the evening, and he’s already backed out on Bill Murray often enough that he’s not going to do it again just because Irene appeared at Baker Street. He does check her things for any more ketamine-filled syringes before he leaves, just in case.

Later that night, when they’re both back home, Sherlock tells John everything—the flight of the dead, Jim Moriarty’s part (“She said that he calls you the Virgin,” John adds. “A man can’t be right about everything.”), Irene’s demands, her defeat. Sherlock is not as triumphant at solving this case as he usually is; he is still inside his own head, still worrying about her for some reason that John can’t place his finger on. He fucks Sherlock bent over the desk to distract them both.

\---

_5 May 1997 (John is 22, Sherlock is 37)_

It’s the last day on the list.

John’s been up since half six, all the nervous energy and anticipation keeping him from sleeping. After he rolls over for the third time to anxiously check the clock, he decides to just get it over with and get on with the day—he needs to get used to getting up early anyway, before he heads out to Sandhurst and on to the hospital. The past year’s placement has helped him get used to the long hours on his feet, but he’s been told that life with the RAMC only gets more intense, which will be a godsend, because the whole school and surgery rotation thing hasn’t been a hotbed of excitement—at least, not enough to meet his expectations. The most exciting thing in his life is Sherlock, and—well.

In the absence of anything else to do after he’s showered and unsuccessfully attempted to read a medical journal that he can’t keep his attention focused on, John decides to clean the flat. He’s let it go a little over the course of the last term—not that he’s ever exactly been obsessively tidy, but the piles of unwashed dishes and takeout containers in the kitchen (not that a sink, a hob, and roughly two feet of counter space really deserve to be called a kitchen) are a recent development. It would be nice to be able to reach in the cabinet and find a clean mug instead of having to wash one every time he makes tea. It would be nice if he got it near enough to spotlessness before he has to worry about packing up all his things and taking them to his mother’s house for safekeeping.

It’s almost eleven before Sherlock shows up, sprawled on his back on top of the rug between John’s bed and desk. The now very clean, and for once not strewn with books and clothes rug, he apparently notices upon landing. Sherlock sits up with a grimace—it wasn’t a very hard fall into this timeline, but John can tell that it wasn’t gentle on Sherlock’s back—that quickly turns into a grin when he stretches out his legs and doesn’t bump into anything along the way.

“Has this always been red? I could never be quite sure,” Sherlock says, his tone dry, but he’s smiling, his head turned over his shoulder to look at John—how does he always know _exactly_ where John is in a room, without even searching?—as he picks himself up.

“Yes, it has, you arse. Clothes are on the bed.” John took the suit to the cleaners after the last visit, and now it’s laid out neatly on the bed with Sherlock’s maroon shirt that just happens to be John’s favorite. It’s all in surprisingly good condition after fifteen years of intermittent use.

“This is the cleanest I’ve ever seen _this_ place,” Sherlock says as he starts to dress. John smiles a bit at that—he loves the way Sherlock emphasises “this,” a reminder that they will see each other again later, that Sherlock does know him in some other context in the future. He needs the reassurance sometimes—especially today.

“Decided to start getting things ready for moving out.” John’s just finished wiping down the baseboards, something he’s never done before in his life but remembers his mum always complaining about the necessity of. The work of his earlier shower is almost completely negated, because cleaning got him sweaty and he’s sure there has to be stirred-up dust settled into every crevice of his skin. “I’m not very good at waiting,” John says in apologetic explanation.

“You are, actually. Very good at it, in fact.”

John shrugs. “If you say so.”

Sherlock has his trousers on and is buttoning up his shirt as he asks, “Plans for today?”

“Nothing, really. Anything you’d like, I suppose. I need to have another shower no matter what we do, though.”

Somehow it’s completely unsurprising when Sherlock slides into the shower behind him. It’s a tiny, glass-walled thing, and it barely holds them both, though they’ve certainly tried before. “What are you doing?”

“I know what today is,” Sherlock answers. “And I know what you won’t tell me you want.” Sherlock kisses the back of his neck and John smiles, relieved.

They kiss in the shower until the water runs cold, then tangle their limbs together under John’s duvet until they’re warm again. It’s languorous and feels more intimate than the last time they saw each other, lying here face to face on their sides in his bed. John doesn’t want to ruin it with sex, so he decides to get out his last-minute questions instead.

“How old are you right now?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“And what’s the oldest you’ve been, visiting me?”

Sherlock hesitates, and John rambles on. “Well I can never tell, I mean, you mostly look the same. Those suits always fit and I guess you have a little more grey around your temples now and then, but—”

“The oldest I’ve seen myself is thirty-eight.”

“Oh... wonder why that is.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Maybe they find a cure when you’re thirty-eight. Maybe you’re just in the present from then on,” John says hopefully.

“Maybe,” Sherlock agrees. It doesn’t sound terribly reassuring.

“And how long does it take? Before I see you again?”

“John—”

“Is it just a little while? Please tell me I have you to look forward to when I’m home on leave, that I’m going to have someone who’s not my family who gives a damn and is waiting for me.”

“Plenty of people give a damn about you,” Sherlock pauses and gives John a kiss on the bridge of his nose where the skin is bunched up with John’s worry. “They’d be idiots not to. And I _promise_ that you are just fine without me.”

John sighs. “It’s going to be a long time, then?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Why do I always have to wait?”

“Because there’s nothing wrong with you, and everything wrong with me.”

“If I could, I’d go with you every time you leave.”

“And that’s why—” Sherlock starts to say something, but stops abruptly and changes course. “John, just remember when we meet again that none of this has happened for me. Take it easy on me, and don’t hold it against me. I’m—I wasn’t a very good man when I met you. Still not entirely sure that I am one now,” Sherlock smiles fondly when John interrupts him with a scoff, “but I will be better. It’s you who makes me better.”

“No pressure,” John says dryly.

“None at all. You do it by being yourself, by existing. Not so hard.”

John’s chest feels tight and he’s not really even sure what he could possibly say to that, so he kisses Sherlock one more time before rolling over to his back and urging him, silently, to put his head in the crook of John’s shoulder so that John can run his fingers through his curls. Sherlock likes that, on those irregular times when they do touch like this; John is grateful that this is one of them. Moving means having to draw his legs in in a way that looks terribly uncomfortable, so that his head can reach, but Sherlock does not complain.

“I’m going to miss you,” John whispers. “So much.”

“I know.” A few moments pass and Sherlock adds, “Me too.”

They lie there together quietly; John runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and any time he happens to stop, Sherlock nudges him to start again. He would laugh, tease him and call him a cat, but John is just too fucking sad for it. It’s worse when he feels Sherlock tense underneath his hand and start to tremble.

“You’re leaving.”

Sherlock nods grimly.

“Stay,” John pleads; he sits up suddenly, pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace. “I don’t want you to go. I—I don’t know what I’m going to do, I lo—”

“John, I—”

He is gone.

\---

_15 March 2012_

It’s too late to get a train back to London when the case is done, so there’s one more night to be spent at the Cross Keys Inn. Still no double room available either, on the first time they’ve gone somewhere that John would have especially liked to have had one.

“There are two beds in this room, you know.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, and the ticklish huff of his breath against John’s ear makes him squirm. “But why would I want to be anywhere other than in a tiny single bed with my John?”

 _My John_ , he repeats in his head, and thinks that if he had a mind palace of his own, that would be stored at the forefront. John smiles to himself but tries to make his voice stern. “Maybe because you are roughly ninety-five percent leg, you are wrapped around me like a bloody octopus, and I, on the other hand, am not exactly a small enough man for both of us to fit comfortably in one of these any more.”

“You’re quite small. _I’m_ comfortable.”

 “Yes, yes. I realise that this is the important thing in this situation.” John elbows Sherlock in the ribs, gently. Perhaps not gently enough, judging by his grunt, but Sherlock can’t claim not to have earned it. “C’mon, detach. Let me turn over.”

John rolls over to face Sherlock, who immediately wraps his arms and legs around him again. “Is this your way of apologising?”

“For what?”

“You _know_ what. Tell me you don’t need me ever again, say you don’t have friends, hell, call me your friend and not... whatever we are, and I will have to seriously hurt you.” John punctuates his threat with a bite to Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock sucks in a sharp gasp of breath. “I already apologised for that.”

“Not bloody well enough, I think.”

“Well I was frightened of an imaginary hound at the time. One must make allowances.”

“Mm,” John says, and they both know it carries the meaning of _I’ll be the judge of that_. “You were afraid, but you didn’t go popping off into the past. How does that work?”

“Drugs,” Sherlock says. “Something about them keeps me here, confuses my brain enough that whichever signals activate chrono-displacement incidents don’t fire correctly.”

“Which is why—”

“I had to test them on you? Yes.”

“Why you had to... what?”

“Test the drug that I thought was in the sugar on you. I knew what effect it had on my mind, so I needed to try it on an average one.”

“I was going to say that’s why you turned to drugs when you were younger, but by all means continue to tell me about the experiment you ran on me that terrified me near to death. So that I’ll have sufficient evidence when I’m arrested for your murder.”

“John,” Sherlock says admonishingly. “If you do such a poor job of murdering me and hiding the fact that you were the one who committed the crime, you hardly deserve to get off for the crime no matter how good the motive. I’d be glad to be dead, because I’d otherwise die of shame to see you execute something that gets you caught and taken to trial.”

“I... you’re fucking impossible.”

“Mm,” Sherlock makes what sounds like a proud agreement. John smiles and rests his head against Sherlock’s neck. They’re both breathing deeply and evenly, and just when John starts to feel himself fall under, Sherlock starts to talk again. “What happened after I was gone?”

“Are you going to let me sleep or are we going to have an entire conversation?” John grumbles.

“What do you think? Indulge me. You said that you wanted to be a surgeon. What happened?”

John laughs, sleepily. “We’ve had this conversation before. Or more precisely, I’ve complained and you listened. Trauma surgery positions were selective—I mean, there were only so many cadetships in the first place, and you just had to do what they told you to, right? A lot of getting a surgery position was about who you knew, and I was a nobody.”

Sherlock scoffs. “You’re not a nobody. You’re John Watson.”

“That didn’t mean much then.”

“Then they were idiots.”

“You think everyone is an idiot.” John gives him a quick kiss. Tries to give him a quick kiss, but Sherlock holds him in it. “Oi, you’re the one who asked the question,” John complains, and kisses him again before continuing. “They did need GPs, though, and I thought it would be interesting enough. I was wrong, of course. It’s the same stuff that I do at the surgery now. Turns out a soldier with a cold is every bit as exciting as any other person with a cold.”

“Not at all?”

“Exactly.”

“So how did you get shot if you were just spending all of your time in the clinic?”

“I didn’t spend all fourteen years as a doctor, you know.”

“No?”

“I did the first seven after I finished at Bart’s with the RAMC, but after I was discharged I reenlisted. I told you—I was a soldier. Little overqualified for it, but they took me on as a medic the second time around.”

“Explains your marksmanship, then. I was surprised by it, that first time.” High praise, considering the source.

“Ta. Anyway, being a soldier was far more exciting than sitting in the military clinic. And if I was ever a little reckless, well—you did tell me that I would be just fine.”

“Did I miss anything important?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Other than fourteen years of everyday life? Not really. Though...” John trails off. He can remember it vividly, the disappointment. “My mother died. When I was twenty-seven. I came home and I thought that—it’s ridiculous, now, knowing it doesn’t really work this way—I thought you’d be there waiting for me.”

“Why?”

“You were there when Dad died. You—” John starts to say _you went to his funeral_ , but that’s a decision he’d rather Sherlock make on his own. He gets so few choices. “You were there for me for that, so I hoped...”

“If I could have been...”

“I know.”

Sherlock pulls John tighter against him—something John wasn’t entirely sure was possible—and bends his mouth down to kiss John’s left shoulder, just above the knot of scar tissue there. “I’m glad you were reckless, if it made you happy and brought you to me.”

\---

_21 April 2012 (Sherlock is 31 and 36)_

Sherlock has landed in the bedroom this time. There’s rarely anything to worry about when landing in Baker Street while his things are present in the flat, so he relaxes and pulls one of his dressing gowns—the tartan one—around himself before opening the bedroom door.

He freezes, because there is an unmistakable voice coming from the sitting room. Jim Moriarty. “But don’t be scared. Falling’s just like flying except there’s a more permanent destination.”

“Never liked riddles,” Sherlock hears himself say.

“Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I... _owe_... you.”

Sherlock waits, listens to the sound of Jim’s footsteps leaving, seventeen steps down and out the door, before he joins himself. “He means it, you know. You need to be prepared. Work with Mycroft.”

If he’s startled himself, it doesn’t show. “You can’t tell me what I really need to know, can you?”

“No, not exactly. I can’t tell you the plan. I can’t tell you the outcome. But I can tell you that you need to be clever, really clever, because underestimating James Moriarty would be the greatest mistake of our life.”

\---

_15 June 2012_

“Now,” Jim says with delight. “Shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building—nice way to do it.”

“Do it? Do what?” _So obvious. But he’s prepared for this_. “Yes, of course. My suicide.”

“‘Genius detective proved to be a fraud.’ I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales. And, oh, this one has a hero with a special power!”

“Being smart enough to pay attention to the things no one else does is hardly something from a fairytale.”

“Not that one,” Jim says, grin growing wider. “Oh no, that’s nothing compared to the real treat—all these people in London who’ve seen your disappearing act and you really thought I wouldn’t know about your little secret? Especially with a certain someone on my side.”

“The Woman,” Sherlock breathes out. _Of course_.

“You didn’t think that someone like Irene Adler wouldn’t have one last piece of insurance, did you?”

“The terrorist cell—”

( _“Why save me? After the things I did?”_

_“I was... grateful to you. And a mind like yours shouldn’t go to waste.”)_

“Was a test. A test to see if you were as sentimental as I thought and, honey, you passed with flying colours. That heart of yours. Such a weakness. Irene has a little message for you: ‘Remember, Mr. Holmes, I’m the woman who beat you.’” Moriarty is a good actor—his takes on her speech pattern with startling accuracy and his mouth twists up in a perfect facsimile of Irene’s triumphant smirk, but his eyes are still his own: cold, unsmiling.

“And now... I kill myself? Die in disgrace to complete your story?”

“Yes, and your friends _will_ die if you don’t.”

“John,” Sherlock says, looking down over the edge. He’s not here yet.

“Not just John. _Everyone_.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Everyone.”

“Lestrade... three people who will die unless your men see me jump.”

“Oh no, that’s not all. You see, you have an unfair advantage, and I’ve planned for this. Four gunmen. One is waiting with little Molly Hooper, not that her ordinary mind has even noticed yet, and if she does not receive a dead body—your dead body—all of it will be set in motion.”

Until now this has been familiar territory. Sherlock assumed as much—that he would be expected to jump, that there would be an incentive in the form of the lives of his three closest friends. Sherlock was not expecting the fourth, thought he had been so careful not to expose the only other person who counted. “How did you know about Molly?”

“That would be Irene as well—you and your little... pet,”—Jim curls his lip in distaste—“told her nearly everything we needed to know. She was the one name that came up when you mentioned entrusting Ms. Adler’s camera-phone to someone. So trusting.” When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Jim continues: “I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. _I’m_ certainly not going to do it.”

“You’re so sure of how this ends. Do you want to know what’s in your future, from the one person who really knows?”

Jim laughs dismissively. “I thought you weren’t allowed to say, or you really wouldn’t be here right now, would you?”

“No, I’m not allowed to change anything—there’s a difference. I couldn’t warn myself about the specifics that would allow me to change my own circumstances, but I know all about what happens to you. You’re dead; I might lose today, but so do you. You won’t be leaving this rooftop alive.”

“Of course you would think of that as losing. No, I still win. I win because _this_ is what I want.”

“What do you mean? You want to die?”

“As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends; you’ve got a way out.” Jim grins. “Well, good luck with that.” Faster than Sherlock can react, Jim reaches for the Beretta tucked into his waistband, puts the muzzle in his mouth, and pulls the trigger.

He comes out onto the roof, steps over the pool of Jim’s blood and brains there, unflinching, like it’s not something terrible: Sherlock’s other self, already dressed in one of his suits, here to jump. “Give me the coat and the phone, and get down.” Sherlock does as he’s told, in a daze; he hands them over and crouches down by the ledge. His other self stays standing, stays where Jim’s men can see him.

“How do you know that it’s time for you to jump? How do you know that it’s not supposed to be the you that is two years older, five years older?” They do not have much time, but Sherlock needs to know.

“I’ve been to the future, less than a year from my present. There is only one of me in that timeline; I don’t exist there anymore.”

“When?” Sherlock is desperate, can deduce something approximate from looking at his other self, but he _needs_ to know.

“You’ll know when it’s time,” he promises. “Be there for John, it is very hard for him.”

Sherlock can feel it, rising bile in his throat and that strange flickering sensation that tells him that he’s not quite _there_ any longer, and will be gone completely within moments. He curls into a ball and tries to fight it, but it’s a battle he never wins.

\---

“Listen to me, this is important. You will see me fall off of this roof, see me jump to my death, but it is not me, not the me from _now_.” He does not state the obvious, that even though he is not the current Sherlock, he is still _Sherlock_.

“Sherlock—”

“Good-bye, John.”

“No. Don’t!” John is staring up at him, and this can’t be—it can’t be real. “No. _SHERLOCK_!” Sherlock stands there at the edge, spreads his arms, and falls.

“No, he’s my friend. He’s my... Sherlock, _please_.” They won’t let him through. John does not have to pretend to be devastated because this _is_ Sherlock who is dying, as convoluted as the timeline might be: it is still his body lying on the pavement. “Please, let me just...” John pushes forward through the crowd because he needs to see it, needs to know how much longer he has to live his life the normal way before this Sherlock will jump and there will be nothing left of him at all.

“Jesus, no.” John collapses next to Sherlock’s body. The face is mangled, bloody, and John cannot discern the age because the features are so obscured. “God, no.”

They take the body away, and no one will let John follow.

\---

Molly unzips the body bag, prepared for what she thinks she’ll see. The fact that it’s _him_ , obviously actually Sherlock, makes her gasp and stagger back.

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen at all.

\---

_14 April 1991 (Sherlock is 31, John is 16)_

Sherlock is aware that he’s probably in shock, psychological response, acute stress reaction, at the very least. The awareness is a dull one, drowned out by the buzzing emptiness of his brain refusing to process stimuli at its usual rate. He does know that he is in the back garden of John’s childhood home. It’s dark out, cold, and he should go inside—no, just do something to get John’s attention. John would know what to do. John—

He can’t move.

He can tell that he’s shaking. He’s crying.

He can’t move.

It could be five minutes, it could be an hour later. Can’t tell. All he knows is that John has found him. Sherlock watches him stride across the grass towards him, and he’s young, so young, just a teenager—

Sherlock groans at the heavy feeling that settles in his chest and squeezes his eyes shut, wishing for just a moment that he doesn’t have to see himself fucking up John’s entire life.

“What’s wrong?” John is there, kneeling in the grass beside him. His voice is calm and steady even while it is concerned; his hand is warm on Sherlock’s shoulder, and so Sherlock leans into his touch, gratified to feel John’s arms wrap around him when he does. John is warm; he feels safe, and Sherlock would love nothing more than to just be held, and to forget.

John is expecting a response, but Sherlock can’t tell him the truth, can’t put this on him, not now, so he shakes his head. “It’s nothing. A shock,” Sherlock says, voice rough and barely audible even to himself.

The whole thing is a bit of a blur. Sherlock is aware of following John, of climbing into his bed, of John trying to comfort him— _please, don’t stop_ , Sherlock longs to say, but won’t, not to this John—and let him know that it’s all okay. John says something about sleep and Sherlock agrees, though he knows it won’t be that easy Being here in John’s bed does calm him down, though, and he stops shaking, feels his limbs grow loose and heavy in his body’s exhaustion. Thirty years haven’t changed the smell that is essentially _John_ , and Sherlock buries his nose in the pillow— _is it wet, are those his tears?_ —and inhales, comforted by it. John sits at his desk, and Sherlock can sense him watching—he’s scared, confused. Sherlock doesn’t even want to think yet about what _his_ John must be feeling, the one who just watched his body hit— _stop_. _Stop, stop, stop thinking_.

“You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

Sherlock rolls over and sits up so that he can see him, and shakes his head. “No.”

“I’ve been watching you for signs of shock, but I think you’re okay,” John says uncertainly. “I didn’t know if you’d go along if I tried to make you go to A&E anyway.”

“You did the right thing. You’re a good doctor.”

John gives him a small smile. “I’m not a doctor yet. Don’t really know what I’m doing at all.”

“You’re a good doctor,” Sherlock repeats with conviction. “What time is it?”

“1991.”

“Good to know, but I meant the time of day.” _He’s sixteen, just sixteen and here you are, ruining his life._

“Oh. Well, it’s close to eleven,” John admits.

“Then you should go to bed. I’ll get up; I won’t be sleeping.”

John nods, and very helpfully holds out a spare pair of pyjamas to Sherlock. “Thought you might want these. They’ll be short, but...”

“They’re fine.” Sherlock pulls them on hastily and finds a spot on the floor where he can stretch out, while John climbs into bed.

Sherlock can tell that John is restless, disturbed by his presence and having trouble sleeping even though he normally nods off quickly. He does, eventually, fall asleep, and Sherlock listens to his calm and steady breathing for well over an hour before he climbs back into the bed next to John, careful not to wake him. Right now, he wants the comfort of being near him until he makes it back to the present. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into John’s hair. John is so young now—no lines of worry on his face while he sleeps, no scars yet. He deserves so much more than this. “I’m so, so sorry.”

\---

_15 June 2012_

John goes to their flat—it’s empty, and there is no present Sherlock (whose head has not burst open on the pavement) waiting for him, not yet—and tears it apart, searching for that damned tattered Doctor Who notebook that’s been his prized possession since he was seven years old and a strange man with a funny name told him to write down some dates inside.

It is missing. Sherlock probably never returned it after that first time he took it to memorize the dates. It’s not essential; John had only wanted to confirm what he already knew—that the thrice-underlined and starred date was today. The bastard had known the day that he would die, and had John write it down when he was just a child.

Night falls before Sherlock returns home. John sits there in the dark, waiting; he rises to his feet when Sherlock comes in, turns to face him.

Neither of them speak for some time; they just watch each other. Sherlock is disheveled, wearing the same suit he was this morning, only put on with far less care, and his hair sticks up wildly. John hasn’t changed his clothes yet; there is blood on his shirt cuff. Sherlock’s blood.

John interrupts the silence. “You planned this—you drove me off, went up there on the roof by yourself.”

“It wasn’t meant to be real. Mycroft and I... we worked together, pieced together Moriarty’s plan and made one of our own.”

“Were you going to tell me, or was I going to believe this was real even when it wasn’t?”

“Moriarty was going to kill you, unless you thought it was real. It had to look real, just until we could make you safe. I couldn’t lose you, John. I wasn’t going to take that risk.”

“So you’d let me think I lost you instead?”

“It was only going to be a short while, it—”

John cuts him off angrily. “Goddammit, Sherlock, I _did_ lose you! I just lost you!” When Sherlock doesn’t say anything, John continues. “Why shouldn’t I just stop this now, move on to someone else who’s not going to throw himself off a fucking building in who knows how many years?”

“Maybe you should,” Sherlock says quietly, voice full of hurt. “Save yourself the trouble.”

In that instant John feels like his life is full of repeating moments, and all of them involve explaining to Sherlock that he doesn’t understand who he is, that he is not this cold monster who he thinks he is. “You—for a genius you are just so fucking _stupid_ sometimes. I can’t just ‘save myself the trouble’ because that’s, that’s just not what I do. I want trouble because trouble makes me feel alive and trouble is _you_ and everything you do. I can’t just let go of you.”

“You asked me to tell you why you shouldn’t leave, and now you’re telling me I’m the fool for thinking that you should?”

“You don’t understand, it’s—I’m not angry at you, I’m angry with myself. Because now I know that it’s coming but I still can’t step away even though I know I should. Because I don’t want to live without you as long as I can have you. I mean, do you know what you just did for me? I don’t know if you could do that now, but the you I knew when I was a child… I need to know the man from the future who would do that for me.”

“Don’t you dare, John,” Sherlock snarls his name. “Don’t you dare say that because you have no idea. _None_.” The anger seems to visibly seep out of him. Sherlock slides his back down the wall until he is seated and puts his head in his hands. “I would have jumped myself, right then,” he says quietly. “Wouldn’t have hesitated at all if it meant saving you. Thankfully for the both of us, he was willing to do it instead. And he _is_ me—we are the same person, so don’t you ever, _ever_ mistake that.”

John stares, stricken, until he realises that Sherlock is crying; he falls to his knees in front of him and pulls him into a fierce hug. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry; I don’t know why I said all that— _Christ_ , I’ve gone and made this thing about me, when it’s you...” John can still see it, the moment of impact. “Oh my God, Sherlock.” He kisses the top of Sherlock’s head and pulls him tighter.

“What do I do?” Sherlock’s voice is shaky and uncertain. John’s never heard him like this, not since John was sixteen and—Christ, that was probably today for Sherlock too.

“I don’t know.”

“You always know what’s appropriate when I don’t, so tell me: what do you do when you know you’re going to die?”

“I don’t know,” John repeats. He is crying now too; Sherlock’s curls are damp from it. “For now, you just stay. You stay with me and I’m not letting go.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Of an Arcane Binding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/778809) by [Salvia_G](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salvia_G/pseuds/Salvia_G)
  * [Cover for The Time-Traveller's Flatmate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/816470) by [moonblossom graphics (moonblossom)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom%20graphics)




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